Reclaim
by AriaAdagio
Summary: In the wake of Derek's tragic car accident, the process of Meredith Grey rekindling her romance with Derek Shepherd is a slow one fraught with unexpected challenges. You know how it starts. You know how it ends. In this companion novel to Recover, join MerDer for the journey. [MerDer, post 11x21, fix-it, multi-chapter][ReVerse Series #3][COMPLETE]
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:**

Hello, all! This is a follow-up/companion piece to my short story, Recover. Reclaim is meant to slide into (ie elaborate on) the "rekindling the romance" section between month 12-19 in Recover. If you haven't read Recover, you might be a little confused by this narrative. Detail-oriented readers will probably notice a whole host of tiny continuity errors between Recover and Reclaim. The simple fact of the matter is that I wrote Recover as a means for catharsis and never had any intention to extend that story universe. My muse, however, had other ideas. I came up with the idea for this story about three days after I finished Recover, and I've been doing nothing but writing in my free time ever since. Since Reclaim was a much larger, much more ambitious project, I ended up doing a lot more research, planning, and meticulous editing for this story, which is how the continuity problems resulted.

Reclaim is BIG. This story is 28 chapters plus an epilogue. It's 190k words (this equates to a 760 page paperback). The story is complete from start to finish as I type this author's note, so no need to worry about an AATW situation where chapters take months to write. I will try to post a few chapters a week (at most 3) as I get them edited. Expect the usual Aria staples. Angst, fluff, porn-y goodness, humor, drama, romance, and a world you can immerse yourself in.

This story was a labor of love. I put my heart and soul into this. I think it's one of the best things I've ever written, and I hope you will think so, too.

 **WARNING!** This story is a follow-up  & fix-it for Shonda's crap. **Derek is permanently disabled.** There is no magic fix. **If this bothers you, DO NOT READ RECLAIM.**

* * *

 **Week one.**

Meredith has never been an optimist, but for some reason, her head got stuck on the idea that once she brought Derek home from the rehab center, the complicated part of his recovery process would be over. When he kisses her in the living room after apologizing for nearly dying, this mistaken conclusion is bolstered. After a few minutes, he's blushing, and breathing hard, and she feels alive in a way she hasn't in months. She thinks, finally, the universe isn't picking on her anymore. Finally.

He seems to remember bits and pieces of their home, but not everything, so she gives him a slow tour. She shows him around the kitchen, making sure he knows where to find everything important. She shows him where the bathrooms are and where to find the linen closet. She shows him his office, her office, the kids' rooms. The introduction to every room is a slow one. He stops to look at everything. If it's not glued down or too big to lift, he picks it up, as if his hands have memories, too.

He doesn't talk much – he can't – but by dinner time, her heart already feels … less weighted down. She's been so lonely. Even seeing him almost every day, even with the kids demanding most of her time, she's been lonely. She loves her children, but the children aren't him. Derek's her best friend. She's not sure when it happened. He didn't used to be. Not when they first dated. Not even when they first married. By the time his car got smashed with him inside, though .… She swallows against a lump in her throat.

Visiting him for an hour a day hasn't been enough. She's wanted her best friend back. She's wanted her husband. And now she has them both again. She's been given a gift.

Derek is **home**.

The first inkling she gets that the complicated part of his recovery is only beginning, though, is when she takes him to their bedroom. Not long after dinner, his energy flags, and he stops making as much sense, and he has a harder time understanding her. After she puts their dishes in the dishwasher, he confesses, "T-tired," with a dull expression and drooping eyelids.

"In here," she says. He follows her into the room, his limp, which is worsening with tiredness, making his strides jerky. "We sleep here," she says.

He freezes when he gets a look at the bed. "Both … here?" His grip tightens around his cane.

She blinks, confused. He looks … unsettled. And then she feels like a freaking idiot. He's slept alone for a year, and she doesn't even know if he remembers sleeping next to her before that. Of course, he's unsettled. "Is that … okay?" she says.

"Yes," he says, the word soft, but he sounds … far, far from okay.

She's imagined their first night together so many times, imagined closing her eyes to the sound of his breathing while she rests her cheek on his chest. She misses sleeping to the sound of his breathing so much that the act of missing him makes her insides ache. But .…

"Do you want to sleep in another room?" she says, heart sinking.

His mouth opens and closes, but he says nothing.

She bites her lip. "Derek, if you're not comfortable here, it's okay," she says, though she's dying inside. "You can sleep in the guest room." She walks over to him, pressing up against his side. She wraps her arms around him. Kisses his shoulder through his t-shirt. "Just … say no if this is bad."

He swallows. "We … sleep." He takes a short breath, wincing. "Sleeped. We sleeped … here?"

"Yes," she says. "Do you remember that at all?"

He doesn't answer. He stares at the bed for another long moment. He limps away from her to the left side of the bed, though she hasn't told him that's the side he sleeps on, and she wonders .… Maybe, he does remember a little?

He pulls back the comforter, and he sits on the lip of the mattress, which moans as his weight sinks into it. He rests his cane against the nightstand. He stares out the window into the darkness, not that there's anything to see right now. The clouds have blotted out all the stars, and all she can see is murky black.

"Derek, are you okay?" she says.

"Yes," he says, but he doesn't look at her.

She frowns. "You're sure?"

"Yes," he repeats.

Her frown deepens. "Okay," she says slowly. Something is off. She knows he's lying. But she has no idea what to say or how to fix … whatever it is.

It's not until she starts changing into her sleepwear that she has a light bulb moment. Well, possibly. The second she takes off her shirt, the hairs on the back of her neck prickle and stand up, and she looks over her shoulder to see him turning away from her. He puts his elbows on his knees and curls in on himself as his breaths tighten in his chest. He **does** remember. That has to be the problem. Maybe, he doesn't have words for any of it. Maybe, he doesn't understand what he's looking at in his mind's eye. But he remembers. And, now, she's standing here half-naked, and he's looking at a fixed nowhere that's in the exact opposite direction from her, and of **course** that's what he's thinking.

She puts on a t-shirt as quickly as she can and slides into the bed on her side. He sits, rigid and hunched on his side of the bed, unmoving, and he doesn't look at her. She scoots over to him, and she puts a hand on his shoulder. The way he shrinks away from her touch confirms her fears. Seeing the bed must have triggered a whole slew of memories, and he doesn't like them. Of course, he's not ready for anything like that.

She pulls her hand back, giving him a wide bubble of space, and tries to think of what to say. She doubts the rehab center gave him any sex education. When would it have come up if he doesn't know how to ask about it? And she's not sure how to explain any of this to him in words he can understand.

"I don't want sex," she says, settling on blunt. They can work from there, she hopes.

He looks at her. His face and lips are pale, and she realizes he's trembling. He blinks. "What …?"

"Are you remembering us … touching a lot?" she says, tone gentle. "In this bed?"

He swallows, and his eyes pinch shut. He rubs his temples.

"That's sex," she says. "What you're remembering. I don't want that." Which is a lie. She does. She does want that if it's ever something he's emotionally capable of, and now that he's kissed her, she suspects it might be. Maybe not now, not yet, but someday. But she doesn't want to muddy this already-confusing conversation with conditionals, so she leaves that on her mental back burner. Now. She needs to deal with the **now**.

And the now is that he won't look at her.

Emotion wells up like a tidal wave. "Derek, I never want you to do anything with me that you're not comfortable with. Never. Not **ever**."

He doesn't speak. She tries to gauge his expression, tries to figure out if she's lost him. The longer her sentences run, the more likely she is to confuse him, and she needs him to get this. She needs him to **know** this.

"Do you understand me?" she says.

He presses his face into his hands. "I … don't. I .…" He rocks back and forth, agitated. "Sorry," he says, the words raw and upset.

"Don't say that," she says. "None of this is your fault."

"I know I'm. I'm. I'm," he says like a stuck record. He takes a breath and thinks. "I'm .…" His mouth opens and closes and he gets that looking-for-a-word expression that breaks her heart. He looks at her, helpless. "I know I'm .…" He swallows. "I'm not … not same."

She risks the bubble she's allowed him, and she touches him, touches his shoulder. His muscles are like steel underneath her fingertips. She gives him a squeeze. "I know you're not," Meredith says, the words soft. "I don't expect you to be." She rubs his back. "You can always say no. Say no if something is bad. Do you understand?"

She watches him churn on that for a moment. She wants to jump in, and she wants to add more words, something to make things better like the flip of a switch, and she expends gargantuan effort clenching her jaw and waiting, instead. Giving him a moment to think. He takes a while to think, even when he's not upset.

"I …," he begins. He struggles for words. "No. No, this .… I don't want … here .… Here."

"That's okay," she says. "Really, it's okay."

"I don't want here," he says again, more resolute, now that he's mapped out what to say.

She wipes tears from her eyes. Her throat hurts. For a minute, she can't speak, but she clears her throat. "It's okay. You can sleep in the guest room, instead." She climbs out of bed.

"Guest …?" he says, frowning.

She's fighting not to fall apart. "Someone who … visits."

He mouths the word visits.

"Someone … who doesn't live here but … stays," she clarifies.

"Oh," he says. "I'm … guest?"

"No," she says. "You live here, now. This is your home. You're not a guest."

"But …," he says. A sound loiters deep in his throat. Kind of a growl. He's getting frustrated, just like she is. She wishes she hadn't used the word guest, now. She wishes a lot of things about this conversation that are pipe dreams.

"It's not a guest room," she says. "I used the wrong word."

Comprehension dawns on his face, and her heart squeezes. He knows all about using the wrong words. He's trying to learn as many as he can, but he still has so far to go.

"Come on," she says. She takes his hand, urging him to follow. "It's **your** room. Not a guest room."

"My room?" he says, and the relief in his tone crushes her.

"Yes," she says, nodding. She wipes fresh tears away from her eyes. "All yours."

He struggles to his feet. He's tired enough that his cane barely seems to be enough support for him. She leads him down the hall to the empty guest room, cringing at how badly he's limping. She didn't show him the guest room on the tour of the house earlier, since she deemed it one of the least important places in the house for him to know. She pushes open the door to show him the room, now.

A queen-sized bed covered with an indigo bedspread sits against the back wall, which is a panorama of windows. Nightstands hug both sides of the bed, each with a small lamp on top. A chest of drawers sits left of the closet, and a door to a private bathroom interrupts the wall to the right of the closet door. Other than that, though, the room is bare.

She hasn't put fresh sheets on the bed since Derek's mother visited a few weeks ago, but Derek drops his cane by the bed and collapses onto the mattress before she can tell him to wait a moment while she gets new bed linens. His eyes are wet and rimmed with red. He pulls the covers over himself like a shield, until she can barely see more than a few wisps of raven-brown hair. He used to do that before the accident when he felt sick or upset, and she hurts. She hurts for him, knowing he feels sick or upset right now.

"We can move your things into here tomorrow, okay?" she says.

He rasps, "Okay."

"I love you," she whispers, but he doesn't respond except to burrow deeper, like he wants to hide.

Like he wants her to go away and give him space.

She turns out the lights in the room, closes the door, and pads back to their bedroom. She feels like she has a golf ball stuck in her throat when she crawls back into their bed, alone. In her entire year of fantasizing what it would be like to have him home again, she never pictured … this. Never imagined the wonderful memories that make this bed so important to her also make it anathema for him. But now that her eyes are opened to his reaction, she can't fathom how this all must feel to him, being able to remember pieces of a previous life while only being able to view them through a limited lens of comprehension. Her chest hurts, thinking about that, and she feels stupid for not considering it before.

She wishes she could rewind and approach things differently. Maybe, he wouldn't have balked if she did, and she'd be sleeping beside her husband, now. But she's not. She's alone.

And she has no idea what to do.

* * *

She's not sure how she fell asleep, but she did.

She wakes up to birdsongs and daylight and a quiet house, and it's strange. As a busy surgeon and, for the past year, a single mother, she's used to her schedule being monopolized by work and by her children. She can't remember the last time she slept in late enough for the sun to peek over the horizon, let alone for it to climb high enough in the sky that sharp, hot light striking her eyelids is what wakes her up. She squints at the clock. Nearly 10 a.m.

She doesn't get up right away. Instead, she enjoys the luxury of sleeping in, and she lets herself sigh and sink into the pillow. She's booked off three weeks from work, and Derek's first rehab appointment isn't scheduled until her first day back at the hospital. Maggie is keeping the kids for a week while Derek adjusts to being home, and then Meredith will have two weeks off with her whole family. A lump forms in her throat just thinking about it. She's missed her family being together.

When she leaves her bedroom at 11 a.m., she discovers that Derek's bedroom door is closed. She can't tell for sure whether he woke up and went back to bed, or never got out of bed in the first place. The pristine kitchen and its lack of dirty dishes anywhere suggests he hasn't emerged since last night, though.

She doesn't worry. Not yet.

As superficially fine as Derek looks, he has a traumatic brain injury, and one of the common side-effects of those is fatigue. Mental. Physical. Psychological. Any subset or all three. His physical therapist told Meredith that Derek likes to sleep late, and that sometimes he takes a nap in the afternoon when he's stressed. He didn't nap, yesterday, and yesterday was a stressful day. In light of that, and in light of how the previous night ended, she opts to give him his privacy, for now.

When he hasn't emerged from his room by 1 p.m., though, she's concerned enough to check on him. She knocks on the door with the backs of her knuckles. "Derek?" she says. "Is it okay to come in?"

She waits.

He doesn't tell her no. He doesn't tell her yes, either. He doesn't speak at all.

She waits a full sixty seconds, giving him every opportunity to deny her entry, but only silence hovers in her ears.

When she pushes the door open, she bites her lip. Sunlight slants into the room, bathing the mattress in bright light. He's lying under a pile of covers, and she can't see more than a few tufts of his hair. She would think he hadn't moved since last night save for the fact that he's favoring the left side of the bed, and last night, he collapsed on the right.

"Derek, are you okay?" she says, clutching the doorknob.

The covers move, and he makes an upset noise. "Yes," he mumbles from somewhere in the lump of blankets, but he doesn't sound okay. He sounds far from okay.

"Are you hungry?" she says.

"No," he says.

She licks her lips. He suffers migraines. She has his codeine prescription in her purse. "Does your head hurt?"

"No," he says. Silence stretches. After what feels like eternity, he adds, "I want stay here."

She frowns, not sure how to react to that, but she doesn't press him. "Okay," she says. "Let me know if you need anything."

He says nothing.

She's reluctant to leave him alone, but she does. She forces herself to close the door and give him space. She's not sure what to do. She calls the rehab center. One of the counselors thinks Derek might be having trouble adjusting to living in a new place, thinks he might just be scared.

The idea that he might be scared of living in his own home breaks her heart, and it seems so incongruous with his curiosity during the tour yesterday. Plus, he kissed her. And she can't count the number of times he smiled.

Until the end.

She has a sinking suspicion that, if anything made him scared, it wasn't the new place. It was her. Trying to get him to sleep in the same bed with her.

She pinches the bridge of her nose.

She wants him to be comfortable. She wants to perpetuate an environment where he feels like he can move at his own pace without worrying about what she wants. She doesn't **want** him to be scared.

She has to stop, she decides. Kissing him. Telling him she loves him. She has to stop all that unless he initiates it. With his sex drive kicking in again, he might be seeing all of her affectionate gestures, what she meant to be platonic, in a different light, now. Might be seeing it as pressure, which is the last thing she intends.

She has to stop, and she has to figure out how to get him to understand that she doesn't expect anything from him. She can do the former. She has no idea how to do the latter, yet.

* * *

 _Say hi to McDreamy for me. Have lots of welcome home sex._

That's how Cristina signs her latest e-mail, a sluggish, two-weeks-later reply to Meredith's last message, and Meredith sits on the couch for a long moment, gaping at her laptop. Thanks to the literal night and day time zone difference, Cristina's tendency toward workaholism, and Derek's accident creating a single mom situation, phone calls have gotten impossible to coordinate. Meredith hasn't heard Cristina's voice in over nine months. Meredith remembers the last phone call verbatim, because Derek just woke up, and Meredith, desperate to talk to her person, stayed up until 3 a.m. to match up a call with Cristina's lunch break. Meredith remembers how high she felt. She remembers how pleased Cristina sounded on Meredith's behalf. But … after that … nothing. Even e-mails have taken a downturn toward sporadic. And, now … this. Irrefutable proof that Cristina's over five-thousand miles away, off in her own oblivious world.

Meredith knew e-mail was no substitute for a flesh-and-blood friendship, but she's never been knocked in the face with that fact like it's a baseball bat, before. She bites her lip, going back through her last few e-mails, re-reading what she's said about her and Derek's situation. To Meredith, it's clear as day from her narrative that McDreamy is gone, and there will be no welcome home sex. Maybe, Cristina was joking? It's so hard to tell with nothing to look at but text.

Meredith chooses to believe it's a joke. That Cristina's not being flippant to be a jerk, or because she's that clueless.

 _Derek slept in the guest room, and now he won't come out. I think I scared him. I have no idea how to fix it,_ Meredith types with a lump in her throat. A sinking feeling overrides any hope that Cristina will have an idea about how to fix things. A sinking feeling that this isn't even the beginning of an end, anymore. The end happened, and Meredith was too freaking busy to notice.

* * *

Other than when she checked on him, she doesn't see him at all his second day home. She does her best to leave him be, and she goes to bed alone for the second night in a row. On his third day, she can tell he at least came out of his room, because he's eaten every single one of the bananas in the bunch she left on the countertop. There's no evidence that he's been through the fridge or the pantry. Just the bananas are gone. She frowns at that. Derek liked bananas before, but … not enough to make an entire meal out of them. He avoided carb-loading like the plague, and a bunch of bananas has enough carbs to lay a diabetic flat in a coma.

His bedroom door is open. The bed is made, and the room is empty. Dust motes float lazily in the bright haze of sunshine. "Derek?" she calls with a voice meant to carry, not sure where in the house he's wandered to. She waits a few moments for a response, but he doesn't reply. She checks rooms systematically, ignoring the flutter of worry that builds with each empty room.

The worry is almost ready to explode into panic.

He's not in the living room or in a bathroom or on the deck or in the backyard. He's not in his office. He's not … anywhere? But then she finds him, sitting on the edge of Zola's little bed.

He clutches the stuffed lion he bought for her years ago, staring into space like he's in some sort of fugue. His cane lies on the floor at his feet, inches from his right sock. She sits down beside him, watching as he pets the soft fur on the little lion. He doesn't greet her. Doesn't look at her.

"Hey," she says, the word soft. He blinks, and his gaze shifts to her knee, though he doesn't turn his head, and then his attention flicks back to the lion in his hands. "What are you doing in here?"

"I buyed this," he says, looking at the lion. He frowns, and he glances at her. "Buyed?"

"Bought," she says, since he's asking. She makes a habit of not correcting him unless he asks. Correcting a person with aphasia anytime he says something wrong is a fast way to turn a calm exchange into an ugly, resentful frustration pit, and she has a hard time figuring out which of his grammatical slips are aphasia, and which of them are him not knowing the right thing to say because he hasn't learned it yet. She errs on the side of assuming aphasia, which she leaves for his speech therapist to help him sort out. "Bought is the past tense of buy."

When his aphasia is causing an issue with his speech or comprehension, the problem Derek has is two-pronged. What he hears isn't necessarily what's been said, and what he says isn't necessarily what he means, which creates one hell of a game of telephone when he's having problems. Luckily, when he's well-rested and relaxed, though he's not immune, he's a lot less issue prone.

If he's tired or upset or not focused, though, things like, "I baked a cake," and, "I bake a cake," can become the same sentence, to him. That kind of misinterpretation isn't usually mission critical, but, "I yelled at my friend," and, "I was yelled at by my friend," can also sound identical to him, which might result in him hearing the opposite of the speaker's intended message. This is because he has a hard time hearing verb tenses and small function words, like "to," "is," "the," "a," "an," _et cetera_. His brain strips what he hears of its grammar, tosses him a pared-down bucket of major nouns and verbs, and he's left to piece the meaning together like a puzzle, which is why it's so much damned work for him to understand people, and why compound sentences, run-on sentences, passive voice, and Meredith's tendency to babble endlessly all serve to confuse the crap out of him. And that's just incoming messages.

For outgoing messages, when he's tired or upset or not focused, he has the same kinds of problems with function words and verb tenses and conjugations as he does when he's listening. He tends to drop them when he speaks. Sometimes, he knows what he wants to say, but a wrong-but-related word pops out. Like, in his specific case, he can think "memory" over and over and over, but what he says is "remember." In the worst cases, though, he can't say something at all. He knows what he wants to say. He can recognize the word when he hears it said by someone else. But he can't get his lips, tongue, and vocal cords to cooperate with him.

"I … buyed. I b-buyed." He pauses to collect himself. "I bought. I bought this."

She nods, smiling at the memory. She can still hear his throaty growl against her ear, can feel his breaths against her throat, can feel his stubble rasping against her skin. "You did," she says, blinking the memory away. "You got it for Zola." She touches the lion's fur. Her fingertips brush with Derek's. He doesn't pull away. "Do you know what this is?"

He thinks for a moment, staring at the lion. "Stuffed animal?"

She grins. "Yes, that's right," she says. "Do you know what kind of animal it is?"

"Cat," he answers with no hesitation.

She remembers the animal flashcards his speech therapist uses. She's seen him churn through a lot of the basics. Cat, dog, mouse, bird, rabbit, _et cetera_. But she doesn't recall exotic animals in the deck. "Close," she says, giving him an encouraging smile. "It's a type of cat. It's called a lion."

"This lion," he says.

"Yes," she says. He doesn't respond to that, seems content to sit here, thinking. She wonders why he's sitting alone in Zola's room, and she wonders how long he's been here. "Do you miss the kids?"

He looks at her. "I like them."

"I know you do," she says.

His lips twitch as he stares into space, and his flat expression stretches into a smile. The skin around his eyes crinkles as the smile deepens. He's such a handsome man when he smiles, and she loves to see it. She loves to see him happy.

"What are you thinking?" she asks.

He puts the lion down by his hip. "Zola called me Dada."

"That was her first word."

"I remember," Derek says.

She bites her lip. She still hasn't figured out if he understands that Zola and Bailey are his children, or if he thinks they're tiny friends she brings to visit him once or twice a week. Zola calls him Daddy, now. Bailey calls him Dada. She is liberal with the use of the word "our" when she calls Zola a daughter or Bailey a son. Our daughter. Our son. A healthy person would be able to figure out what this stuff means from context, but Derek's ability to make logical inferences is stunted. Worse still, his ability to describe the logical inferences he **does** make is stunted as well. She has no idea what he's managed to glean.

"Do you know why Zola called you Dada?" Meredith says.

He looks up at her. His gaze searches her face. Her heart squeezes when she sees no comprehension in his eyes, though.

"Do you know why she calls you Daddy?" she prods, though she's pretty sure he doesn't, based on the blank look pasted on his face. After another long silence, she asks, "Do you know what a dad is?" to be sure.

His lips part, and a hitching syllable of sound with no meaning escapes. He looks at her. Just for a moment. And then he looks away. He closes his eyes, and he thinks. And he thinks.

"I know .…" His eyes crease, and he makes a frustrated noise. "I knew … my dad," he says, the words halting.

"But do you know why he was your dad?" she presses. "Do you know what that means?"

He thinks for a long moment. He shakes his head. "No."

She swallows, nodding. Their positions are reversed as she thinks and thinks and thinks, and he watches her with a curious expression. This is .… She's not even sure what to say. How does one explain children to someone who doesn't understand reproduction? She's not sure. But she thinks Zola isn't the right example to start with.

"We made Bailey together," she says slowly. He processes that for a moment. She can see the exact moment comprehension clicks in, because all amusement drips out of his expression, and he stills. She takes a deep breath, and she plunges onward. "That's what … sex does." She looks at him, eyebrows raised. "Do you remember that word?"

His doesn't seem disturbed when he says, "Yes," which strikes her as odd, given how upset he was about it the first day. Or … was he? His stunted ability to communicate puts a large portion of the effort in establishing shared meaning between them on her. Has she flubbed something? She reviews what happened on the first day. He was tired. He seemed upset by the idea of sharing a bed with her. He recoiled from her touch. He wanted to sleep in another room, away from her. If it's not about sex … then what?

"Meredith?" he says, pulling her back into the conversation at hand, rather than the conversations they've had in the past few days. His confused expression squeezes her heart. His hands worry at the bedspread, and he scoops up the lion again, like he needs something to do with his hands.

She shakes her head. Focus, Grey, she thinks. "I'm trying to tell you we had sex, and when we did that, we made Bailey."

He stares at her for a long moment. She can almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He looks like he wants to ask a question. His mouth opens. Closes.

"We had sex," she repeats. "And when we did that, we made Bailey."

The moments stretch. "… Okay," he says.

One obstacle toward understanding down. She takes a deep breath, and she continues onward. "Sometimes, sex takes a piece of you and a piece of me and sticks them together. That's what made Bailey."

He frowns. "Like … puzzle."

"Sort of like a puzzle, yes. But only sometimes."

"When does it do this?" he says.

"Only when we both want it to," she says. "We decide beforehand."

"Oh," he says. He's squeezing the lion, and he's not looking at her. His body shifts, agitated. "Why did we … had?"

She raises her eyebrows. "You mean why did we have sex?"

"I .…" He swallows. He looks away. "Yes."

"Because it feels good," she says. She puts her hand on his forearm, but then she second guesses herself and pulls away. And then she hates that she's second guessing herself over touching his freaking arm. It's his arm. She's been touching his arm for a year, now, and he's never had an issue with it. There's nothing sexy about touching an arm. She puts her hand back again, relishing the warm feel of his skin against her fingertips, and the soft peppering of fine hairs. She needs to touch him for this. "Do you remember that part? That sex feels good?"

He looks at her for an interminable moment. She meets his blue gaze with an unblinking stare. She doesn't move. "Do you remember?" she prods.

He looks at her hand. Touching his arm. His eyes narrow. And then his eyelids slip shut. The soft sound of his breathing fills the silence. She gives him all the time he needs. To think. When a smile tugs at his lips, she lets loose a breath she didn't realize she held. When he looks at her again, his face is … more open.

"I was … happy," he admits, and again she's struck with the idea that what she thinks happened on day one isn't what actually happened.

"Me, too," she says, meeting his grin. She puts her head on his shoulder and sighs. She rubs his arm with her palm, but she limits herself to that. Her hand. On his arm. "Sex is a way to show how we love each other."

"You … love me," he says. "You say lots."

She nods. "I do," she says. Her throat tightens. He initiated this, so she thinks it's okay to say, "I love you very much."

She doesn't expect him to say it back – this is already a metric ton of stuff for him to grasp, and all at once – but it still hurts to hear him say, "Okay," in that flat, wary tone that says he understands, but he's struggling. The Derek she knows is one of the most affectionate people she's ever met. The idea that he's confused by the idea of love, now, is … painful. But she swallows, and she presses onward.

"Since we made Bailey together with sex, we keep him safe," she says, continuing her explanation. "Until he's big like you and me."

More struggling, but he nods after a moment. "Okay."

"That's why Bailey calls you Dada," she says.

He swallows. "We maked Bailey."

She nods. "That's right. So, he calls you Dada."

Confusion creases his face again. He squeezes the lion like a little stress ball. "Zola is .…" He searches for a word, staring into space, expression sinking further into helplessness as the moments stretch. "Zola is … not."

"That's right," she says, understanding what he's trying to get at. "Another mom and dad made Zola. They couldn't keep her safe. She needs someone else to keep her safe."

He processes that. She waits. "We … do this," he says. "Keep her safe."

She nods, her throat filling up with a painful lump. He's getting this. It's slow, but he's trying so hard, and he's getting it. "Yes, we do," she says.

"My dad …," he says.

She squeezes his arm. "He and your mom made you."

"They keeped me safe," he says.

God, he's really getting it. He's making connections, and that's … amazing. Her eyes prick. She resists the urge to jump. Or hug him. Or do something else stupid that will make her look like an idiot. "That's right."

The silence stretches. He thinks, rubbing his temples. His eyes are getting wet, and his lower lip trembles. She wants to kiss him through his shirt. She wants to hug him. She wants to hug him so much that her chest hurts. But she doesn't. She doesn't want to create another first night. She wants him to feel safe and not pressured.

"Are you okay?" she says.

He looks at her. He takes a quick, gasping breath. "This … so much."

"I know," she says. "I know this is a lot. But you're doing **so** great."

"I wish I'm … same," he says. He blinks. Tears spill and slash his cheeks. "I wish .…"

"It's okay that you're not," she says. "Really, it is."

He doesn't reply to that. He's back to fixating on the lion. He strokes the fur with his thumb as he stares at it without an expression on his face, though his eyes are dripping. She hates that she's overwhelmed him so much. She hates the fact that she's so happy he comprehends. She hates … all of this. She swallows against the lump in her throat.

"Derek, I really want you to try to understand something," she says. Just one more thing, she thinks. Just one more, and she'll leave him alone to process.

He looks up at her. He wipes his face with the backs of his hands. He sniffs. "What?"

"I don't expect you to do anything you don't want to do," she says.

That trips him up. For a long, long moment. And she wants to cry. Why can't she get him to understand this one thing? But then he nods. "Say no if it's bad."

She sniffs and rubs her eyes, relief deflating her. "Right. That's right. Say no if it's bad."

"Okay," he says.

"That means sex, too, Derek."

He blinks. Swallows.

"Do you understand?" she says. For a split second, she loses her patience. "Please, do you understand?"

He looks at her, and then he looks away. "If … I want?" he asks the window, not her.

She stares at him, speechless. She's definitely read this all freaking wrong. This is not a man who's balking over sex. But … what then?

He looks at the window for almost thirty seconds. His gaze flicks back to her. And then again. And then he turns to her with a hesitant frown. "Did I … said … wrong thing?"

"No!" she blurts, and he flinches. She takes a breath and lets it out. "No, you didn't say anything wrong. Not at all." She considers for a long moment what to do. How to show him …. She wraps her arms around him, refusing to second guess her first impulse. He doesn't stiffen. Doesn't jerk away. Doesn't look sick. His body is warm, and solid, and she presses her nose against his shoulder, inhaling. "If you want to have sex, then we will," she says, trying to keep the hope from spilling into her tone. She smiles as her eyes prick. "But not until then, okay?"

"Okay." He nods. He swallows. He wipes his face with his hands. "I … okay."

She rests against him, and they sit, a tangle of limbs, for minutes upon minutes, reconnected, and in this moment … she can't think of a single thing in the world that's wrong. The problem is she doesn't understand how in the hell this went right.

* * *

She's embarrassed to admit it takes her four days to figure out Derek doesn't know how to prepare food. He doesn't understand microwaves or stoves or can openers anymore, or how mixing different things can make something new. Worse, though, is that realizing cooking is Greek to him takes her an alarming amount of hints before she has her 2+2=4 moment. The first thing that should have clued her in is the fact that he eats whatever she's having – and therefore whatever she gives him – without complaint or offering alternative suggestions. This is weird in and of itself, because the Derek Shepherd she knows hates almost all the food that she likes, health nut that he is. She misses that neon sign, though, and by the time things click, he's eaten all the bananas, all the apples, an entire box of Crispix cereal, and a container full of mixed nuts – every last piece of ready-to-eat food sitting free-to-grab on the countertops – and he's standing in the kitchen with a growling stomach and a lost look on his face because she's slept late again and hasn't fed him.

She swallows as she lines up all the items they'll need to make pancakes while he watches over her shoulder. The pancake mix, milk, eggs, vegetable oil, honey, syrup, pan, cooking spray, whisk, mixing bowl, measuring cups, spatula, plates, and utensils all sit in a haphazard pile on the countertop next to the stove. It's a lot of junk. Junk she doesn't normally use. Well, she uses plates and utensils, so she's two for fourteen.

She takes a deep breath. Maybe, she should have started with something small. Like toast. It's hard to screw up toast, though she's managed to do so on more than one occasion. What possessed her to cook something as ambitious as pancakes, she doesn't know. The buckwheat pancake mix isn't hers. It's a leftover from when Amelia lived in the house. Amelia likes the same kind of pancakes Derek does.

Okay, okay, she does know. She does know what possessed her, and it's stupid, but Derek made the best pancakes. Meredith remembers one time after her liver transplant surgery, he brought a plate of pancakes up to her on a tray. He chopped up a banana and a strawberry to make a wide banana smile and two red berry eyes.

 _One plate of sugar coma for my dearest wife,_ he said with a goofy flourish, and she laughed-winced as he set the tray over her lap and leaned to give her a kiss with a mouth that tasted like syrup.

 _I think you sampled the goods_ , she said.

He gave her an innocent look. _Merely taste-tested._

 _No, I think you fell off the health-food wagon._

He winked. _I may_ _not have kept my hands and arms inside_ _the vehicle, at the very least._

The memory makes her smile, and she admits, though it's selfish, that she wants that again. She wants that **so** much.

"How is this be …?" Derek says beside her before verbally stumbling to a halt, and she blinks away the old image to focus on the now. His mouth opens and closes in that familiar expression she's grown to recognize, where he's struggling to turn a picture in his head into a word spoken from his mouth, and the fight's not going so well. He closes his eyes and thinks, but when he opens his eyes, he has no further words to offer, other than a halting, frustrated, "How …?"

"How does this make pancakes?" she offers.

He nods. "Yes." He looks at her for a moment and then his gaze shifts back to the bowl. "How does … this … make pancakes?" he echoes, filing that diction away in his mental cabinet for future use.

"Well, first we have to mix everything."

She points to the back of the pancake mix box. The instructions are written using helpful pictures, with only a smattering of words separating each picture, words to specify measurements and a few hard-to-illustrate verbs. The whole pancake-making process should be easy for someone to follow. Even her. Maybe, even him, though she thinks this might still be a little too advanced for him.

He takes the box from her and looks at it. "This shows how," he says.

"Yes, it does." She doesn't think he can, but she still asks, "Can you read that, yet?"

He's only just mastered the alphabet and numbers, and reading aloud is difficult for him. Even when he understands what he reads, he struggles to convert the text he sees into words he says. Another awful product of his aphasia. He points to the first picture in the directions. "This is …." His lips move as he tries to sound it out. "One." One cup of pancake mix. He moves to the next picture. "Two." Two tablespoons of vegetable oil. "And .…" The third picture flummoxes him. He frowns, thinking for a long march of moments. "Twenty … three?"

"No," she says. "That's two-thirds. The slash mark means it's a fraction. It's asking for two-thirds of a cup of milk."

She's lost him with that, to the point that he doesn't ask for clarification because he's so lost he's not sure what to get clarified. She puts her hand on his shoulder and squeezes. "You read the number symbols right," she tells him, giving him a smile, and he smiles back. She continues, "That's a two, and that's a three," while pointing at the numbers. She thinks about elaborating for him, but she doesn't want breakfast to become a complicated math lesson. "It just doesn't mean twenty-three, here."

"… What?" he says.

"This means two-thirds," she says. She picks up the 2/3 cup measure and shows him the same two-slash-three on the handle. "See? It matches."

Comprehension dawns as he compares them. He thinks for a long moment. "Okay," he says.

She takes the box back from him to dump out one cup of mix into the mixing bowl, and she proceeds down the list of ingredients. She hands him the whisk and lets him stir after showing him what to do, and then she sets up the pan on the stove and turns the burner to medium-high heat. He watches her while he stirs, and she makes a point of telling him the stove needs to be off whenever he's done making something. She shows him what all the knobs look like when the oven and burners are off.

She thinks back to when she's seen Derek make these pancakes. He always dipped his fingers under the faucet and flicked water onto the pan to see if it was hot enough to start. Sizzling water means the pan is good to go. She copies the motion from memory.

Derek watches, fascinated. He flinches when the water sizzles. If he has any memory of doing this, he's not showing it. "You used to make pancakes all the time," Meredith says. She dumps the first dollop of batter onto the pan and picks up the spatula. She's watched Amelia do this any number of times. She's watched Derek do it. Surely, this can't be that hard. She waits for the batter to bubble. "Do you remember that?"

He thinks for a moment, but his face is blank when he shakes his head.

"We let it cook on one side," she says. "Then we flip it over." She demonstrates, sliding the spatula under the pancake and imitating the Derek in her mind's eye. He made flipping pancakes look so easy. Amelia made flipping pancakes look so easy. But it's not easy. Not one bit. The pancake tears in half and lands in a messy, semi-flipped heap in the pan, and she bites her lip. Crap.

"You breaked it," Derek says.

"I didn't break it," she snaps. "It's … a work in progress. It's .…"

Derek looks at the picture of the perfect, round pancakes on the mix box, and then his gaze wanders back to the mess in the pan. She doesn't miss his snicker. "Breaked," he finishes for her, and the teasing look on his face is such a familiar one that it makes her heart squeeze, and she wants to stop, and forget about the pancakes, and just look at him. Her Derek. The Derek she knew. Every time he drifts to the surface of this new Derek, he takes her breath away. Her Derek is alive. He's hurt, but he's alive.

"What?" he says when he realizes she's staring.

She forces the stupid grin off her face with effort, and she shakes her head. "Nothing. Sorry."

She nudges the unflipped part of the pancake with the spatula and manages to get everything wet-side-down, but she no longer has a circle anymore. She has a mangled … panlump. Not a pancake. A panlump. She moves the panlump to the plate and pours a new dollop of batter onto the hot pan. The next pancake turns out much like the first one. A broken, unevenly-cooked panlump. Whatever. They'll still be edible.

"May I do this?" Derek says, reaching for the spatula with his good hand.

"You want to try?" she says.

"Yes," he says.

She bites her lip and watches as he copies her, pouring a dollop of batter onto the pan a little larger than the ones she's been pouring. He glances up at her. "When do I flip?" he says.

"See the bubbles?" she says, pointing at the pancake. He nods. "When those are everywhere, you flip it."

He nods, and he waits. She feels somewhat vindicated when his pancake turns into a panlump, too. Not quite as bad as hers, but, still, it's a pretty crappy pancake, and it's, for sure, the worst pancake she's ever seen Derek make. He frowns at the mess.

"Hah!" she says. "Not so easy, is it?"

He snorts. "I have brain … damage," he says slowly. He looks at her. His eyes are twinkling. "Do you?"

Her jaw drops at his humor. Only Derek Shepherd would be using his own brain damage as a tool to prove his innate superiority. The smirky, haughty look on his face decimates her logical thought, and she laughs as amusement smashes her with a huge wave. And then she laughs again. And then she's giggling, and he's staring at her with a warm look on his face.

This is the first time she's laughed so hard in over a year. Since before his accident. And she feels lighter for it. Lighter, and bubbly, and wonderful, and a zillion watts of bright-and-shiny. She barely clamps down on an, "I love you," before she can blurt it, almost biting her tongue in the process, but she's still thinking it. _I love you. I love you. I love you._ Those three words are a shouting chorus in her head. Because he's playing with her, again. Really playing, and she wasn't sure until this moment that she would ever see this side of him again.

He pours the last bit of batter into the pan for the fourth and final pancake while she comes down off her high. After a minute, he edges the spatula underneath the cooking pancake, and with a quick flick of his wrist, he gets the pancake turned over onto the other side. He has a perfect circle of golden-brown face-up in the pan. Which … isn't fair. It isn't fair in the slightest.

She gapes, looking down into the pan. "How did you **do** that?" she says. He's not even using his dominant hand. The right side of his body is weak, and he's not good at gripping things with his right hand anymore.

He shrugs, but he's smiling a cat-caught-the-canary grin, like he's pleased with himself. She imagines this might be a monumental moment for him. Even if he's just making pancakes, knowing he can do something better than she can, after the year he's had, must be a treat for him. She lets him have his moment without further complaint.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:** Thank you SO much for all the lovely feedback - you guys have made my day :) I also wanted to say thanks to my beta readers, my editor, and everyone else who's helped me get this story into fine fighting form. Seriously, you all rock!

* * *

 **Week two.**

When Maggie brings the kids home in the early evening on day seven, a Sunday, Derek is sitting on the couch in plain view of the doorway, resting his weak leg while he looks at the pictures in an issue of _National Geographic_ , though he's blinking, and he seems like he's having trouble focusing his eyes. Meredith doesn't draw attention to him, because she thinks having two excited children bouncing all over him might be a bit too overwhelming for him to process when he's already a little tired.

Bailey turned two years old only weeks before the accident, and though he knows his dad from visiting the rehab center every week, and he calls Derek Dada by rote, he doesn't have the kind of bond with Derek that Meredith wishes he had. He doesn't seem to care much that his father is home, and he toddles off to play with his blocks and his cars.

Zola, though, was four, and she's always been a daddy's girl. The second she's over the threshold, she freezes. Her eyes widen.

She looks up at Meredith, who grins, and says, "Oh, boy, who's that?" in a soft voice.

Zola gives Meredith a bright smile full of baby teeth, and before Meredith can impress upon her daughter the need for quiet, Zola's off like a rocket. "Daddy!" she shouts as she runs as fast as her little legs will carry her. Derek even doesn't have time to put his magazine down before he has an armful of, "Daddy! Daddy!" wriggling in his lap, and the magazine gets smashed and wrinkled between them. Meredith gets a lump in her throat watching the reunion.

"Hello, Zo," Derek says. He doesn't seem disturbed. He gives his daughter a tight hug and a wobbly grin, and then he looks at her like she's his world in that moment. "How … day?"

"Aunt Maggie took us to the zoo!" Zola says. "We saw lions. And tigers! And bears! And!"

Maggie laughs from the threshold. "And _The_ _Wizard of Oz_."

Derek looks like a lot of this has flown over his head, but he gives Zola a hesitant smile nonetheless, and he says, "I like lions. They … f-favorite … animal." Meredith thinks Derek might be lying, considering he didn't know what a lion was before last week. Or … maybe he isn't. Maybe, the stuffed animal triggered a memory. Meredith's not sure what Derek's favorite animal was before the accident – it's something that never came up in conversation. She makes a mental note to ask Carolyn for the sake of sheer curiosity. But that doesn't matter, now. What matters is that he's perpetuating this maybe-lie to have a conversation with his bubbly, bouncing, excited daughter, and that's … everything. "What your fav … favorite?" he says.

"Ponies!" Zola says. "Ponies. I like ponies. I have a lot. Wanna see?"

Meredith winces. Zola isn't underestimating. She has **a lot** of ponies. What feels like a truckload, even. She watches _My Little Pony_ like it's her favorite must-see soap opera, and she collects all the toys. She has as many ponies as Bailey has Matchbox cars.

"You have … ponies?" Derek says, sounding a little bewildered.

"They're toys," Meredith interjects before he can imagine they have a stable full of livestock in the backyard that she hasn't shown him, yet. "Little ones."

"Oh," he says. He grins. "Yes," he says to Zola. "Show me."

Zola climbs off him and tugs on his pant leg. He gets the hint. He grabs his cane and struggles to his feet. He's tired, and he's limping more than usual, but he follows Zola to her room with an excited, bright look that Meredith loves to see.

Maggie visits for a while before she leaves. They drink coffee in the living room and talk while Bailey plays obliviously on the rug at their feet. After about an hour, neither Derek nor Zola has come back to the living room. After Maggie departs, Meredith puts Bailey to bed, and she finds Derek and their daughter in Zola's room. Their backs face the door. Derek is lying on his belly on the rug next to Zola, cane resting beside him at his hip, and they're playing some sort of game with the ponies.

Zola is a bit of a bossy playmate, and Meredith hears a, "No! You gotta rescue Pinky Pie!"

A pause follows. Derek parrots, "Rescue?" Meredith can tell he has no idea what this means, but Zola seems happy to have any kind of response, happy just to have Daddy.

"Yeah, we gotta save her," Zola specifies.

"Oh," Derek says. "Which … which …?"

"That one," Zola says, pointing to a pink pony dangling off the side of the bed by a hairband.

She gallops her purple pony in that direction. Derek copies her and chases with his orange one. He seems to be doing well with mimicry, even if he doesn't necessarily get what's going on.

Meredith wishes she had a camera, but she settles on pulling her phone from her pocket and snapping a few shots, until she has to stop and wipe her face with her hands because things are getting blurry. Her chest is tight, and the smile tugging at her lips refuses to be tamped. Because she has her family. All of them. And all of them are okay.

* * *

The door to Derek's bedroom stays shut all the next morning, and Meredith keeps catching Zola hovering by it, looking like she's debating walking into the room despite the barrier. The fourth time Meredith catches her, this debate has graduated into execution, and Zola's hand is on the doorknob when Meredith sweeps her up and carries her back to the living room, where Bailey is playing. Meredith sighs as she sits down on one of the chairs, cuddling Zola in her arms. "Zola, when the door's shut, you need to leave Daddy alone. Okay?"

"But why?" she says.

"He gets tired," Meredith says. He was tired last night before Zola came home, and then he spent more than an hour playing with her, which took a lot of intense focus on his part. By the time he wandered to bed, he was monosyllabic and just about dead on his feet. "You need to let him sleep."

"Why?" Zola says.

"He hurt his head," Meredith says. "Remember? We've talked about this."

But Derek enters the room before Zola can reply. Meredith glances at the clock. He's slept until a little after noon. His eyes are bright, and he looks refreshed. His limp is almost gone again, and he smiles when he sees them all in the living room. "Good morning," he says.

"It's not morning," Zola says.

Derek takes this correction in stride and says, "You're right."

Bailey, who's been pushing blocks around on the floor, looks up and smiles. He toddles to his feet, wanders to Derek, and raises his little hands in the air. "Dada, pick up?" he says.

Derek grins. He shifts his cane to his weaker side – his right side. He bends down and swipes Bailey up with his left arm – his strong arm – to settle Bailey against his waist. Bailey giggles at the sudden elevation change and surveys the room from his higher vantage point. Derek doesn't try to walk like that. He holds the kid in his left arm and clutches his cane with his right hand. Meredith suspects he can't support his weight to do anything other than what's needed for balance like that, but Bailey seems more than happy.

"How are you?" Derek says to his son.

Bailey grins. "Payin' bocks. Wanna pay bocks?"

Derek stares blankly for a moment. "… What?" he says.

Bailey starts to wriggle, and Derek puts him down. Bailey moves back to the messy pile of blocks in the middle of the floor. "Pay bocks!" Bailey demonstrates. He starts stacking.

Derek looks down to the rug, a grin spreading across his face. "Sure." He drops to his knees, and then sits on the floor to play with his son.

* * *

Bailey's down for a nap, and Zola, who doesn't take naps anymore, but is still over-excited by the Daddy's home, Daddy's home, Daddy's home of it all, managed to run herself into exhaustion and conk out on the floor in the living room between rounds of hide-and-seek. The house is quiet for the first time since Derek woke up at lunchtime, and Derek seems to be relishing the fact that it's just the two of them for a few minutes. Him and Meredith. He hasn't gotten a play break until now, and she thinks he might not make it much past sunset before he crashes for the night.

Since the pancakes, Meredith has been teaching Derek how to make things. She's taught him how to make soup. And toast. And spaghetti. And macaroni and cheese. And Hot Pockets. She's going against the health-food grain kind of like a hammer smashes nails, but she doesn't know any healthy foods to teach him beyond one chicken and green beans thing, and he's gobbling up her entire recipe repertoire as fast as she can regurgitate it to him.

He's good at cooking, which is when she realizes that, while the accident almost decimated his language center, he's still good at **doing** things. His spatial IQ seems almost unaffected. She doesn't know why she never noticed before, given that he figured out how to use a television remote before he could speak in full sentences, and he was flipping pancakes like a pro after one bad try, even with his non-dominant hand. All he needs is one or two demonstrations on how to do or use something foreign to him, and he's fine.

"How this?" he says as he puts a steaming plate down in front of her.

The plate is covered in nachos, over which he dumped a can of chili and grated cheese, and then microwaved it until the chili and cheese were all warm and gooey. All she did was hand him chips, a can of chili, and a bag of cheese, and he did the rest by himself. She picks up a messy chip. A stringy, stretching trail of cheddar narrows to a hair's width before it snaps. She takes a bite, and the crunch is marvelous.

"This is great!" she says, and she sighs, enjoying this dietary sin for all it's worth.

He sits across from her. He rests his chin on his hands, and he stares at her, a small grin twitching at the edges of his lips.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. A reddish streak of chili is pasted on her skin when she pulls her hand away. He's still watching. "What?" she says. She grabs another chip.

He shrugs. "You're pretty."

Her eyes widen as her teeth sink into a layer of cheese and chili and pulverize the chip underneath. She rushes to chew the rest and swallow. "What?" she says, dumbfounded. "I'm what, now?"

Which is the wrong thing to say, because he blushes, and he looks away, and, well, crap. He pays her a compliment, and she acts like he's not speaking English. Which he runs with as truth all the way to Mortification Land. Her mind races as she thinks of how to fix this. She thinks she's okay, since he's the one who started it.

She lets her sexiest grin slide into place, and she stares at him through her eyelashes. "I like the way you look, too," she says. "You're handsome, you know."

He meets her gaze with his blue, blue eyes, and she lets herself admire the view. His eyes narrow in a sly way, and his easy smile stretches wide again. He seems very cat-caught-the-canary. If this were before the accident, she would swear she was looking at a classic Derek, _I'm stripping you naked in my head, and I_ _ **like**_ _it_ , look. But that was before, and he hasn't kissed her since that first time, and she doesn't want to hope, yet. She won't let herself.

Instead, she basks, enjoying the moment for what it is. Another piece of her second chance with a man who, by all rights, should be dead. A chance she really doesn't want to screw up.

* * *

"Daddy, look at this!" Zola says.

It's just after lunch, on the second full day with the kids, and Derek and Bailey have been exerting their artistry with crayons for about fifteen minutes. Bailey is making an absolute mess of a Tyrannosaurus rex. He's scribbling across the page with bright red slash marks, and he's not even trying to keep the color inside the lines. Derek's drawing of an elephant is a lot more neat, not one stray scribble of color in the wrong place, and he's chosen colors that are appropriate – gray for the elephant, green for the grass, blue for the sky, and yellow for the sun.

"Daddy!" Zola repeats, a bit more impatient this time. "Daddy, look."

Though it takes him a moment, Derek pulls his focus away from the coloring book Bailey has given him. Zola has posed her dolls amidst an array of blocks. Meredith's not sure what Zola's pile of whatevers is supposed to be. A fashion show, maybe? She has no idea, and from the way Derek's eyes are narrowing, he's got no clue, either.

"Dada, gray crayon, peas," Bailey says.

But Derek's still trying to figure out the doll thing.

"Dada!" Bailey says, louder this time. "Crayon, peas!"

And Derek blinks. He shifts back and forth like he's getting agitated. He swallows. He tears his gaze from Zola's mystery thing and looks back at Bailey. Derek gives his head a little shake. "… What?"

Bailey holds out his hand. "Gray crayon, peas!"

Derek glances at the crayon in his hand. And then he looks around at the table like he's trying to find something, but it isn't there. He shifts. Opens his mouth. Closes. Opens. Closes. "What …?" he says.

"Daddy, look at this one!" Zola calls.

Bailey stands up and leans forward, sounding more insistent. "Gray. Crayon. Peas!"

"I don't .…" Derek's breaths are tightening in his chest. "I don't .…" He looks around. Everywhere. Meredith can't figure out what he's trying to find, or she'd help. "I don't .…"

"Derek, are you okay?" Meredith says, but all her interjection seems to do is make it worse. He pulls his focus away from the crayons. He's shaking. Dissolving. Right before her eyes, and she's got no idea what's going on or what's causing it; Bailey's request was simple.

"Daddy, Daddy, look at this one!" Zola calls again.

"Zola, stop," Meredith says, biting her lip as Derek drops the crayon and folds in on himself like he's trying to block out all the noise. Maybe, it's the double-teaming, she thinks. He can't handle two separate things at once. "Stop for a second."

"Peas, I want crayon," Bailey says.

"Bailey, shh," Meredith says as she slides off the couch onto the rug where Derek's sitting, hunched and hiding his face in a tangle of his arms. She puts her hand on his back. He's trembling. "Derek, can you tell me what's wrong?" she says in a soft voice, but he flinches away from her and doesn't speak.

"Guys," Meredith says, looking at Bailey and Zola in turn. "Why don't you go play in Zola's room for a minute, okay?"

The kids grumble a bit, but Bailey grabs the gray crayon he wanted from Derek, scoops up his coloring book, and toddles off. Zola leaves her dolls behind, presumably because she has something else she'd rather do right now. With their departure, the room gets quiet like a wet blanket of snow has fallen everywhere.

Meredith doesn't speak. She waits, hoping Derek will snap out of whatever the hell this is. It's like … his circuits have just … overloaded or something. Too much confusing input, and kerplooey.

Derek takes almost ten minutes to unwind, but he's still shaky and frail-looking as he grabs his cane and gets to his feet. "You okay?" she says, frowning. "Can you tell me what happened?"

He blinks, and he looks at her for a long, long moment. An upset look crosses his face. "I don't .…" He swallows. "What …? What … is …?"

"What is what?" Meredith says. "Crayons?"

"Gray … crayon … peas."

Meredith blinks. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. She sees where this imploded, now. The double-teaming combined with a confusing language mishap. He thought peas meant literal peas. And the only way to parse that sentence would be to make "gray crayon" an adjective, or a noun in a series of nouns, which … makes no freaking sense, even to a person without brain damage, and tack on two impatient children bombarding him with requests, and god, damn it. Damn it. She didn't even think of that, or she would have stepped in sooner. She needs to be a better referee.

"When Bailey says peas, he means please," she says. She pauses. Lets Derek absorb. "He can't say the letter el very well yet."

"Oh," Derek says.

She watches him mouth the sentence again. He thinks for a moment. His face reddens as his look darkens with frustration and understanding in equal measure. He pulls a hand through his hair, his cane digging into the carpet as he shifts his weight back and forth in agitation. But he seems to be out of words right now. He doesn't say anything.

She has no idea how to help him.

* * *

Meredith closes her eyes as the spray from the shower tumbles down around her. She lets the warm curtain engulf her. Listens to the thunder in her ears as her hair soaks through. Inhales wet, steamy air. Exhales like a balloon losing air through a pinhole, slow and steady. Inhales. Exhales.

She tries to stay calm. Tries to stay ahead of the flood threatening to suck her into its undertow. Everybody's asleep, and she has the master suite all to herself because Derek's sleeping in his own room down the hall where he shouldn't freaking be, except for the fact that she messed up something not-about-sex, and she **still** doesn't know what, no matter how many times she reviews day one in her head, and none of this is going like she thought it would.

And then her lower lip quivers. Her eyes prick. A lump clogs her throat. Her chest aches. And her last attempt at holding everything in falls to ruin. This is her first time alone all day, her first time to breathe, and she crumbles. Hidden by the rush of the water, she sheds her grief undetected.

Being a referee for two children under six and a brain-damaged husband is **exhausting**. It's only been three days, and it's freaking exhausting trying to pay attention at every possible moment to what everybody is doing and how it relates to how Derek is acting, and then trying to determine whether to let things continue, or step in. She doesn't want to step in unless she has to, because she wants Derek and the kids to figure each other out and bond, but she's found she can't do anything else but sit nearby, watch like a hawk, and referee. She's afraid to leave them alone together.

Derek's already demonstrated that he'll let the kids steamroll him into overload, and they keep bombarding him with information that he can't interpret fast enough. He has a terrible time understanding Bailey, who still drops letters or adds new ones here and there in his pronunciations. And over the course of the day, confusion makes a downhill slide into frustration. By the evenings, he cringes at every shriek and giggle and loud noise. He's always had more trouble with words at night as mental fatigue slips in, but with the kids adding heaping piles to his mental strain, he's gets much worse as the hours in the day stretch, sometimes to the point that he's almost impossible to understand, and that frustrates him even more than he's already frustrated by that point.

It's a mother lode of a negative feedback loop.

She thinks this might have been a mistake. Trying to get him to live with the kids. He was so even-keeled the week before, when it was just him and her. And, now, he can't get through more than an hour or two without having a meltdown. He's trying so freaking hard. She can see it, she can see him trying to keep up with all the sensory input, trying to figure out what the hell Bailey is saying, and it's heartbreaking to watch as he slides toward a cliff inch by inch and then, wham. Off the edge. It's too much, and he shuts down.

This can't be healthy for him. It can't. And she has no idea how to freaking fix it. How does one explain to a three-year-old that his dad needs to be handled with care? Hell, how does one even explain it to a five-year-old? And **nothing** will fix the Bailey-Derek language barrier except time.

"Shh," she imagines Derek saying as he steps up behind her and into the spray. "It's okay. Everything will be okay."

She chokes on tears. Her throat hurts. "I miss you," she confesses.

"I know," he says. He pulls her into his arms, and he kisses her. "I'm here. We can get through this. I'm not going anywhere. I love you."

But then he dissolves, and she's left with nothing.

* * *

The kids have been home all of four days, and Meredith feels like she's sitting on a nuclear time bomb. Her head is fuzzy, and she's stressed. And Derek is stressed. And she'll try anything at this point. Anything to get the bomb to stop ticking.

She pulls the covers up to Zola's chin and leans down to kiss her forehead. Zola hugs the little stuffed lion Derek gave her. The nightlight gives the room a soft glow, even with all the lights off.

"Zola, we need to talk about something important, okay?"

Zola looks up with wide brown eyes. "What's wrong, Mommy?"

Meredith sits on the bed. The mattress sinks with her weight. She rubs her hand on Zola's chest. "Remember how I told you Daddy hurt his head?"

The lion shrinks as Zola squeezes it. "Yes."

"Remember how he didn't say anything for a really long time?"

Zola nods.

"He's had to learn how to talk all over again," Meredith says. "He has a lot of trouble figuring out what words mean, sometimes."

Zola doesn't seem to get where Meredith is going with this, and Meredith sighs. She squeezes Zola's arm. "If he doesn't answer a question right away, try to wait before you ask him something else, okay? I know it's hard, but, please, try. Give him some time to think."

Zola looks dubious.

Maybe, if Meredith dangles a possible reward for good behavior like a carrot .… "It'll really help him, and then maybe he'll be able to play more with you," she says.

"Okay, Mommy," Zola says. Her eyelids start to dip.

Meredith smiles. "Night, Zozo." She kisses her daughter, and she leaves the room.

* * *

Derek sleeps until around lunchtime again. After everybody's eaten, he and Zola watch an episode of _Dinosaur Train_. Zola sings along, loud and off key, and she fudges a lot of the lyrics with nonsense, but whatever. She has fun. Derek doesn't sing. He stares at the colorful spectacle with a kind of _whoa-what-is-this_ awe that Meredith finds charming. He winces a little at some parts, but Meredith can't discern the cause, and he seems okay for the most part right now. Bailey has disappeared, though, which is odd, because Bailey loves this show, too. Meredith bites her lip. Zola's busy watching the television, so she's not likely to send Derek into a tailspin right now. Meredith thinks it's safe to go check on Bailey for a few minutes.

She finds him playing with his plastic dinosaurs, alone in his room. "Bailey," she says, "you're missing your dinosaur show. Don't you want to see the dinosaur show?" He shrugs and doesn't look up from marching his Triceratops across the rug. She strides into the room and sits next to him on the floor. She picks up the Stegosaurus, hoping to engage him a little. "Bailey, are you okay?"

He looks up at her. "When we go back to drum pace?"

Bailey and Zola are both enrolled in Gymboree classes, which Bailey calls the drum place. "We're taking a little break from that," Meredith says. "Just a little one."

"But I want drum pace."

Meredith brainstormed this with Melody, the nanny, for hours before bringing Derek home, and has everything worked out. Melody offered to look after Derek in addition to the kids, which Meredith has thanked her for profusely, since, while he needs much less supervision than a kid does, he can't quite be by himself right now, either. In order to make things easier on everyone, the kids are scheduled for all the fun out-of-the-house stuff when Derek will be at rehab. Meredith will be Derek's rehab shuttle, so Melody won't have to worry about him on the days she's already worried about driving the kids all over creation. Melody agreed it was a nice solution.

"When Melody comes back, she'll take you and Zola to the drum place," Meredith says.

Bailey looks up at her, a hopeful expression on his face. "And the curtoise pace?"

Meredith nods. Both he and Zola love the tumble-for-tots sessions offered by the local gym, which has turquoise-painted walls. "Yep, she'll take you to the turquoise place, too, when Daddy's in rehab."

Bailey frowns. "What's rehab?"

"Remember the hospital we've been visiting Daddy at?" Meredith says. "That's rehab."

"Oh," Bailey says. He sighs. "I miss drum and curtoise."

Meredith prances the little Stegosaurus after Bailey's Triceratops. "I know, but don't you want to spend time with Daddy, too?"

"Dada don't wike me."

"Of course, he likes you," Meredith says. "He **loves** you."

"He don't wisten to me."

A lump forms in her throat. "He listens to you, Bailey."

Bailey looks up at her with an upset expression. "But he don't answer me."

She sets down the dinosaur and pulls Bailey into her arms. "He has trouble understanding you. That's all."

Bailey sniffs. "Why?"

"Because he's learning to talk, just like you are, and he doesn't know a lot of words." She pulls her fingers through Bailey's hair.

"Oh," Bailey says.

"I know it's hard, but Daddy's trying," Meredith says. Her throat hurts, and she fights not to lose it in front of Bailey. "Daddy's trying so hard. You need to keep trying, too. Okay?"

"Mommy, I miss Medody," Bailey says.

"I know you miss Melody," Meredith says. "She'll be back in a couple weeks, after you get a chance to spend some time with Daddy."

Bailey sighs. "Okay."

"Why don't you go watch your dinosaur show with Daddy?" Meredith suggests, setting him on his feet and giving him a little nudge. "Or see if he'll play dinosaurs with you. I bet he'd love to play dinosaurs."

Bailey doesn't seem convinced, but he trudges out to the living room. Meredith lingers a moment, alone, fighting back a deluge. Her throat hurts. Her chest hurts. She takes three slow, deep breaths, and blows them out, forcing her composure back into place, but like a square peg in a round hole, nothing fits right. God, damn it, why is this so freaking hard?

* * *

Her talk with Zola about giving Derek a chance to think seems to help a little, but on day six with the kids, Derek gets so frustrated he throws a block. Not at the kids or anything, but it does leave a mark on the wall and Bailey in tears. Derek's panting, and he has his eyes closed, and he's rubbing his temples like he hurts.

"Sorry," he says. "I don't .… I don't .…" And then he grabs his cane and hobbles away to the refuge of his bedroom.

It's like … he's pushing himself too hard to be normal, and the children are happy to keep on pulling until he breaks, and Meredith's not sure how to fix this situation. It's not like there's a freaking guidebook. Is there?

She does a lot of Googling, trying to figure out what to do. Unfortunately, there is no easy answer, and the statistics she finds for families falling apart after one parent receives a brain injury are … frightening. Not frightening. Terrifying. The 20%-50% divorce rate pops out at her like a billboard, and she swallows. The uninjured spouse often feels neither single nor married, she reads, and gets frustrated the longer his or her emotional needs aren't met.

But that won't be her, she decides. That can't be her. She can't have survived all this freaking crap, Derek can't have survived all this freaking crap, only to have their well-deserved happily-ever-after fall apart on them. She won't let it. She shoves away the niggling worry that Derek hasn't kissed her again since she tried to get him to sleep in the same bed with her. She focuses on the nuclear bomb in her hands. The one she needs to defuse right **now**.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes:** Thank you SO much for all the feedback. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it! For those who were curious, I'm trying to stick to a MWF posting schedule. Expect chapters around 10 a.m. EST / 7 a.m. PST. You can find me as ariaadagio on Twitter if you want to chat! Anyway, this is a hard chapter. Hang in there, guys! I swear you'll be happy as clams by the end of next week :)

* * *

 **Week three.**

Zola is an inventor, and she's made up a convoluted game using the Candy Land board. That would be okay by itself – Meredith likes that her daughter is imaginative. But the rules keep changing based on Zola's whims, and that's less like playing a fair game and more like Zola cheating, which is something Meredith doesn't want to cultivate. Meredith has been sucked into this trap before, but she was able to recognize this, and she told Zola they would have to play by the normal rules, or Meredith wouldn't play. Zola copped an attitude, but she settled down when she realized if she wanted to play, her option was vanilla Candy Land, or nothing at all.

When Meredith walks into the main room to grab some cherries from the fridge, she's only half listening as she passes by her husband and daughter, who are playing Candy Land at the table. Bailey's down for his nap, Zola's been a little better with Derek since Meredith talked with her, and Meredith thought, maybe, she could take a break from the refereeing. Maybe. She's been collating some notes in her office for her newest research project, which is an offshoot of her former one involving pancreatic islet cells. She's reviewing the most recent trial in her head, and she has her hands stuffed in the fridge before she realizes what's going on.

Derek tries to move his game piece, and Zola rolls her eyes and says, "No, you can't do that!"

He blinks. "I thought-"

"You have to move backward when you draw that card," Zola says, interrupting him.

He looks at the board, flummoxed. "It's not … like this … before."

"Yes, it was," she says.

Derek looks at the board with an upset expression. He swallows. He shifts in his chair, body agitated, and his gaze ticks back and forth as he examines the board. He moves the piece the way Zola has decided this turn should go, but he doesn't seem happy. This is the part where Meredith would have told Zola they can play by the normal rules or they can stop playing, but she thinks Derek might not realize what Zola is doing. He looks frustrated, and tired, and about ready to snap, and she thinks he's assuming he's not understanding the game due to his own failings, and not realizing the catch-22 is that the game is inherently nonsense.

Meredith snaps her hands away from the cherries without grabbing them and slams shut the fridge door. "Zola, stop it," she says as she approaches the table. She wonders how long this has been going on. "You're not playing fair."

"But he said we could!" Zola said.

"He said yes to Candy Land," Meredith says, not entirely sure **what** he's said, but right now, what he's said doesn't matter. "He didn't say yes to this. Play by the rules he knows, or don't play."

The waterworks start, and Zola wails, "But Daddy **said** we could!"

Derek pulls shaky hands through his hair, and he cringes away from the noise. His mouth opens and closes like he's searching for his words, but Zola whines, and then he looks like he's in pain. "Please … quiet," he says in a soft voice.

"No," Zola says, now in full tantrum mode. "No. You **said** we could! You said. You-"

"Quiet!" he roars at a volume that almost makes the china shake, which only makes Zola cry more. He rubs his temples, wincing. "I can't .… I .…" He mumbles something that sounds like it could be an apology, but Meredith isn't sure. He grabs his cane, and he hobbles out of the room as fast as he can move.

Meredith's eyes prick. She wants to chase after him right then, but first she has to discipline Zola. "Zola, stop it," she snaps. "This isn't productive."

"But Daddy-"

Meredith shakes her head. "I'm not talking to you until you calm down. This isn't productive."

It takes Zola a little bit to cry herself out. In the meantime, Meredith sweeps up the game and puts it back in the box. "I just wanted to play …," Zola says, sniffling. "He said we could play."

"Did you warn him the rules would change?"

"I didn't change the rules!" she insists. "I didn't!"

"Don't lie to me," Meredith says. She picks Zola up and pulls her into her lap. "Zola, you can't do that with him."

"Why not?"

"Aside from the fact that it's cheating," Meredith says, "Daddy hurt his head. You remember that Daddy hurt his head?"

"So?"

"Doing stuff like this hurts him," she says. "He's being so nice, playing with you all the time. You don't want to hurt him for playing with you, do you?"

"Why does it hurt him?"

Meredith thinks about how to answer that. How does one explain to a small child that her father suffered from increased intracranial pressure resultant from an undiagnosed subdural hematoma? She's not even sure what Zola's concept of a brain is. She swallows, thinking and thinking. "You know how it hurts when you skin your knee or get a cut?"

"Yes," Zola says.

Meredith gestures at her head. "Daddy has a cut inside here, and when you do stuff like this, it's like you're poking that cut, and he hurts."

"Why can't we give Daddy a Band-Aid?"

Meredith kisses Zola's forehead. "Band-Aids don't fix this kind of cut. It might never go away."

Zola's eyes widen. " **Never**?"

"It's a really bad cut, Zo," Meredith says.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," Zola says, fresh tears welling up. "I didn't mean to."

"I know," Meredith says, rocking Zola in her arms. "I know you didn't. And he knows that, too. You just have to be careful with him. Can you do that?"

"I can still play Candy Land?" Zola says woefully against Meredith's shirt.

"Of course, you can," Meredith says, rubbing Zola's back. "He loves to play with you. You just can't change the rules like that. Play by the rules you tell him the first time."

"Okay."

"And if he tells you to be quiet, you have to listen to him, and be quiet. He's saying that because you're hurting him. Can you do that for him?"

"Noises are ouch-y?" Zola says.

Meredith imagines a shriek feels like a knife in his skull, just based on the face he makes when it happens. "For him, yes. They hurt."

Zola gives Meredith a solemn nod and a sniff. "I'm sorry."

Meredith adjusts one of the purple barrettes in Zola's hair. "I know, Zozo. I know."

* * *

Meredith finds Derek sitting in his bedroom, staring into space as tears jag down his face. She sits beside him without speaking, and she wraps her arms around him and rests her head on his shoulder. His body is warm in her arms, and she takes comfort in that for a moment. "Do you understand what happened?" she says after a moment.

"I think … it's me," he says in a deep, upset voice.

"It wasn't," Meredith says. "She was changing the rules."

He swallows, and he doesn't look at her.

Meredith bites her lip. She needs to get him to referee things **himself**. "But, Derek, you can't let her walk on you like that. If you're not feeling good, you need to tell her, preferably before you're at the point where you want to snap at her. Same with Bailey."

He squeezes his eyes shut, and more tears leak. "I don't … I don't know. What."

She takes a deep breath and blows it out. She refuses to let this day get even more out of hand by losing her patience. "You need to say when you're not feeling good." She pulls her fingers through his hair, and he nods. "She can't figure it out by looking at you. You have to say." A long pause follows, but he nods.

"I hate that I … can't." An upset sound curdles in his throat. "I wish I'm … same. Same."

"I know," she says. Her heart hurts. "I know."

But she refuses to add, "Me, too." She's frustrated, yes. She's not sure how to handle this. But she refuses to be the resentful spouse with the 20%-50% divorce rate.

* * *

Derek's still upset about the Candy Land debacle with Zola, and he's barely pulled himself back into some semblance of okay when his cellphone vibrates in his pocket. He shifts in Meredith's arms to pull out the phone and look at caller ID. He can't read the names very well, yet, but he knows the pictures, and Carolyn is the person smiling back at them on the screen. Meredith thinks talking on the phone is a bad idea, given how precarious things are at the moment, but he hits the green connect button and enables the speaker function before she can think of a way to talk him out of it. He puts the phone on the bedspread between his thigh and Meredith's. Often, he needs help figuring out what's been said, hence the speaker, though Carolyn is much better than his sisters about breaking information down into small pieces for him.

"Hello," he says.

"Hi, Carolyn," Meredith adds. "I'm here, too."

"Hi, Meredith. Hi, sweetheart," Carolyn says. "How are you two?"

"I'm enjoying my vacation," Meredith lies, a lump forming in her throat. "I get to sleep in. It's great."

Carolyn chuckles. "Well, I'm glad you're getting a chance to relax," she says, "because you've needed it," which only makes Meredith's throat hurt more. She swallows. "Derek," Carolyn says, oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere. "How are you?"

"Okay," Derek replies in a flat tone.

"Is it nice being home?"

He doesn't respond right away. He glances at Meredith, first, before answering, which is odd. "Yes."

"How's it going with the kids?"

This question stops him cold, and he swallows. He looks at his knees. Damn it. It's a reasonable question, but it's the exact question Meredith hoped wouldn't come up.

"Are you having fun?" Carolyn clarifies, probably thinking he hasn't understood.

His lower lip quivers, and all the upset he's managed to somehow cram back into Pandora's box comes flying out again. His eyes water and overflow, and he croaks, "No."

"Oh, sweetheart, what's wrong?"

Derek looks at Meredith with pleading eyes. He wipes his face and sniffs, trying to collect himself again. Meredith yanks the phone off the bed, turns off speaker, and leaves the room with it. She slips into the hallway bathroom, closes the door, and sits on the toilet seat.

"I'm sorry, Carolyn," she says in a soft voice she hopes won't carry back to Derek. "You caught us at a bad time; that's all."

"What's going on?"

Meredith swallows. "He and the kids aren't getting along very well."

"Why not?"

"If you keep forcing information down his throat before he's done chewing on the last spoonful, he shuts down," Meredith says. "He's fine with me, but the kids don't give him a chance to keep up. I have no idea what to do. He's getting more and more frustrated, and I feel like something awful is going to happen if I don't fix it, soon."

"Hmm," Carolyn says. "Maybe, incentivize them slowing down for him?"

"I've tried talking with both of them, but that didn't help much."

"But did you try incentivizing?" Carolyn says. "Like giving an immediately tangible reward?"

Meredith frowns. "Like, what, toss them candy or something?" That's a great way to make them diabetic and obese before they're six. She's no health nut like Derek, but she **is** a doctor.

"It doesn't have to be food," Carolyn says. "Kids love all sorts of rewards. Stickers. Points. Praise. A hug. The goal is to make the behavior fun for them, so they'll want to do it more."

"Maybe, I could make it a game …?" Meredith thinks.

"What kind of game?"

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I don't know," she says. She gets up. Paces. "I don't know." Sighs. "I don't. **Know**. I need to brainstorm."

"I'll try to think on it, too," Carolyn says.

"Please, let me know if you come up with anything," Meredith says. She's having trouble keeping the tears at bay again. God, damn it. And now she's wearing a trough in the bathmat with her back-and-forth-and-back-and-forth. "I need help," she adds, almost a whisper.

"Oh, Meredith," Carolyn says in an earthy, sympathetic tone. "I'm sure once you get the kinks worked out, things will be much better. And you can call me anytime for anything. You know that, right?"

Meredith nods, but doesn't reply.

When silence steals the conversational space like a thug, Carolyn adds, "Meredith, do you need me to come out to Seattle again? I know I was just there, but I'm happy to come back if it would help you."

"No," Meredith croaks. "No. I think this is something we have to settle amongst ourselves, or this won't ever work."

The problem is, Meredith is starting to think it's not something that **can** be worked out.

* * *

Derek slept until noon again before emerging, and Meredith worries he's exhausting himself trying to deal with this living situation. She wishes she had any idea of what to do. She feels like her family is in a slow slide toward imploding, and this isn't how things are supposed to be. This is all wrong. Derek being home is supposed to be a **good** thing.

She watches over the top of her book. Derek's playing an easy version of catch with Bailey. They aren't throwing the ball, because when Derek's standing, he needs a free hand to rest his weight on his cane. Instead, they're sitting on the rug, rolling a rubber ball back and forth. It's a simple game, but Derek's embellishing with fakes and feints, and Bailey is laughing and laughing.

Zola's watching one of her shows on the television, not paying any attention. The volume is up kind of high, and Derek is flagging a little, but Meredith thinks it's okay to leave it alone for now. She keeps trying to reassert her focus on her book. Not to much avail. It's hard to read with the television going and Bailey giggling like a hyena.

The smoke detector in the kitchen chirps, drawing Meredith's attention from the fray in the living room. Her nostrils flare. The air in the kitchen seems hazy. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. She realizes the oven pizza she's been baking for lunch is starting to burn.

She races to the kitchen to see if she can save it, but opening the oven is a mistake, because then the smoke detector shrieks so loud her ears feel like they might be melting. She grabs the pizza with a potholder and chucks it outside to get the smoking thing out of the house, and she opens as many doors and windows as she can get her hands on. The whole affair takes all of two minutes, but when things calm down, Bailey and Zola are alone and crying in the living room, and Derek's … gone.

His bedroom door is shut, and she's about an inch from bursting into frustrated tears, so she leaves him be and lets him calm down in peace.

* * *

After the kids are in bed, she notices his bedroom door is open again, but he's nowhere to be found inside. When she glances outside, though, she sees him out in the backyard in the almost dark. The light from the house keeps him from being invisible. He's sitting on a swing, swaying back and forth, his cane hooked over his forearm.

The cool breeze ruffles his hair. She's not sure when he left his room, but she's certain his door wasn't open before the kids were in bed. She thinks her putting Zola down for the night was his signal to come out of hiding, kind of like nightfall is a beacon to a lot of bugs.

He's staring at nothing and doesn't look up when Meredith comes up behind him. "Hey," she says, wrapping her arms over his shoulders, which halts the swing. His body is warm through his t-shirt, and she presses up against him. She leans down so she's cheek to cheek with him, and he relaxes into the touch with a soft sigh. "Are you feeling better?"

"Uh," he says, like his tongue is weighted. He looks at his knees as his feet drag on the ground, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. This is weird. He doesn't tend to fill empty verbal space with ums and ahs, just silence. She frowns and steps around the swing to face him. When he looks up, her frown deepens. His eyes seem glassy and unfocused. "Sorry … I … leave."

She squeezes his shoulders. By the end of the day, he has a much harder time with discourse than he does in the mornings, even without stuff stressing him out. She thinks, maybe, for him, talking is a bit like lifting weights. He starts out strong and refreshed, but by the end of the set, he's shaking with muscle fatigue, and the barbell feels four times as heavy as it should. The idea of that makes her hurt. She hurts. And she hurts over the fact that she's subjected him to this by bringing him home.

"If leaving helps, I say do it more often, Derek." She's already trained Zola and Bailey to leave Derek alone if the door is closed. It's a perfect way for him to retreat, she thinks. Maybe, it's even the perfect solution to their continuing issues.

He looks at her with a glassy, blank gaze, and something feels off. Just off. He reaches behind himself to massage the nape of his neck. Like he's aching.

"It help," he says. A wince. "Helps. I need .… I need .…" He stutters into silence, and he thinks for a long moment. She rubs his arms and doesn't push. "Talk … hard," he says, the words raspy. "Talking." He swallows. "So … h … hard."

"I know," she says. "But you're doing really well, you know."

He winces and rubs his neck. "I like … have place." He closes his eyes. Thinks. "Having place." More thinking. "Place .…" He looks back at her, unfocused blue eyes glistening in the dim light. "Place I don't … don't … t-talk … lis … listen."

She pulls her fingers through his hair, thinking. She looks up at the dark sky. Billowing, endless clouds have blotted out all the stars, and the air feels wet and smells of earth, though it isn't raining. She stares into the nothing, thinking and thinking. A puzzle left unsolved for several weeks now niggles at her, and she rewinds to consider an old event with new information. The dawn of understanding arrives like a sunrise, and she bites her lip. She can't believe this has been such a hard one for her to figure out.

"Is that why you wanted your own bedroom?" she says.

He takes a long, long time to parse that, but he says, "Yes."

She nods, sighing. Finally. Freaking finally. She gets it. "Derek, say no if this is bad," she prefaces herself with. "Do you understand?"

He takes a long time with that, too, which … again … **weird**. That's her fallback phrase. He knows that one by rote. But he does nod after a long moment.

"If you sleep in our bedroom with me," she says. She waits, and she gives him a moment to absorb that before continuing. "I promise, no talking when you don't want to." She swallows. "No noise, either." She hopes he can believe her. She likes to think she's been considerate enough about his needs that he sees a pattern with her where he doesn't with Zola and Bailey.

"Okay," he says.

"Consider it, will you?" she says. She strokes his cheek with her thumb. "I miss you there at night."

He doesn't reply, but she doesn't miss the fact that he doesn't say no, either.

* * *

His behavior the night before was concerning enough to her that she checks on him as soon as she's awake the next morning, even though his door is closed. She finds him lying sprawled on his stomach in his bedroom in the dark. The shades are all drawn. He's wearing the wax earplugs he used to wear to help him deal with her snoring, and a black sleep mask covers his eyes. His bottle of codeine is tipped over and stray pills litter the nightstand. With the door open, she can hear the kids playing out in the main part of the house, and Derek groans and burrows.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Prodrome phase, she realizes. She was looking at the prodrome phase of a freaking migraine last night. The stiff neck. The confusion. The unfocused eyes. The aphasia. Aphasia is a hard symptom to peg with Derek because he already has aphasia, but the rest of his issues were freaking billboards shouting, " **Migraine incoming**!" and she missed them.

She closes the door as quickly as she can without slamming it. She sits down beside him, hip to hip, and splays her hand against his spine. She strokes his back, slow and soothing. "Hey, it's me," she whispers. "Did you take your pain pills?" And that's all she says, because she knows sounds are like swords stabbing his ears. She glances at the codeine bottle. She can't tell if he's taken some already, or if he knocked the bottle over trying to get it, and gave up.

He moans something that sounds like a yes. She feels like such a freaking idiot. If she could have gotten the codeine in his system before he was in pain, he might not be feeling so horrible right now. Pain is easier to treat proactively than it is to treat reactively.

They need to fix this, Meredith thinks. Some of Derek's migraines are random, but the lion's share are stress-related, or triggered by sleep deprivation, and he's been stressed and frustrated for days, now. There has to be some way to find a family balance where Derek's not the casualty. There freaking has to be. She's just not sure what it is, and she hates feeling this helpless. She hates feeling like she did this to him. Bringing him home was supposed to be in his best interests, not cause him daily suffering.

She hears something crash in the living room, and he flinches, and he makes a sick sound. Meredith tries to get up to go deal with the kids, but Derek grabs her hand. "Stay?" he says in a breathy, pained voice.

A pit forms in her stomach. "Derek, I can't. I have to watch the kids. I think they broke something." And she needs to keep them freaking quiet.

He makes a deep sound in his throat that makes her heart squeeze. Meredith's not certain if the sound is his assent, or if he's expressing his suffering. Either way, his grip goes slack, and she slips out of the room, wishing she could do what he's asking her to do. Stay. Derek's been through so much, and the fact that she's leaving him there, alone in agony in the dark .…

Her eyes hurt, and everything swims. This is so exhausting. **Exhausting**. And **everything** is wrong.

The day crawls. She can't focus. She keeps snapping at the kids like a wounded bear. She checks on him every hour, but all he does is lie there in the dark on his stomach, not moving, not talking, not anything, and seeing him in pain like this makes her feel sick.

When she's put the kids down for the night, she goes back to his room. She can do what he wants, now. She can stay.

He's motionless when she enters. She can't even tell if he's awake, but he must be. How does someone sleep when he's being tortured by his own body, and he can't move all day?

She kicks off her shoes, and she crawls under the covers with him and scoots close. She pulls her fingers through his hair. Though he starts as a neighbor in the same space, over the minutes, he shifts until he's flush with her, skin to skin. She's not usually the big spoon with him, but this time, she is out of necessity. She rubs his torso with her hand, up and down and up and down.

He doesn't speak. She doesn't expect him to.

This isn't how she imagined her first night sleeping in the same bed with him since the accident. She hates how miserable he is. She hates that he's suffering. But she appreciates that he seems to find comfort in her, both in her presence and her touch.

"Thank …," he rasps into the quiet space.

Which makes her feel like crap. Because she left him here alone all day, and he's still thanking her. She presses her forehead to the back of his neck in response, soaking in the warmth of his skin, because her throat is raw with upset, her mind is filled with guilt, and she can't think of anything to say.

* * *

He's better in the late evening of the following day, almost midnight. Better in the sense that he's not stuck in the manacles of crippling agony, anyway. But he's listless, and he's not moving well, and he's slow-thinking even for him.

She tells him to stay in bed while she brings him something to eat. After she sets a tray with a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup over his lap, she crawls into bed beside him. He gets nauseated when he's suffering from a migraine, and this is the first thing she's tried to get him to eat. She rubs his back as he takes his first, shaky spoonful.

"Thank … you," he says like he's got weights attached to his tongue.

"Sure," she says. "You're not hurting too much anymore?"

The expression on his face is dull as he thinks for a long, long moment. "Four," he says.

For a moment, she can't figure out what he means, but then it strikes her, and she can't help a grin from sliding across her face. Their system. On a scale of one to ten. She's not sure how much of that he remembers, and now is a horrible time to ask him, when he's having so much trouble with cogency, so she files the system away as a conversation topic for later, because she'd love to know.

He slurps on another spoonful.

"Maybe, we should have a system," she says into the comfortable silence.

He doesn't speak for a long time. He swallows. "Sys … tem?"

"A way to do things," Meredith says. "Maybe … have a word."

"Have …?" He makes a frustrated noise, and it's clear the figure of speech flies right over his head.

"Something to say when your head is too full," Meredith says. "Something the kids can understand."

"… Okay," he says.

"How about pause?" she suggests.

"Pause?"

"It means stop, but not forever," she says.

"Pause," he says, testing the word on his tongue. He swallows. "I … try," he says, and she grins at him. He takes another spoonful of soup, and another. She's glad he's eating again. She hopes after a decent night's sleep, he'll be less out of sorts.

* * *

Except he doesn't try. He doesn't come out of his room on Sunday. And every time she knocks on the door, he says, "No."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes:** Thank you, thank you, thank you, once again, for your feedback! I try to reply to everything individually via PM, but I can't do that with people who aren't signed in, so I'd like to just toss a big public hug to Greyshasbecomemy, Juli, Mecawa, Patsy, Gem, Jill, Truth, Jennie, and the anonymous feedbackers! You guys have made my day over and over again - thank you for taking the time to send me your kind words! Anyway, thanks, all, for hanging in there over the weekend. I hope I didn't scare anybody off with the angst! This is a really rough situation MerDer are in, but they'll figure it out :)

* * *

 **Week four.**

The hum of her Jeep's motor fills the silence. Fog has descended everywhere, giving the surroundings an ethereal look, and she feels like she's driving in a cloud. Derek rests against the passenger-side window, staring at nothing, while she navigates the early morning hazard.

It's Monday. The end of her vacation. And she hates that she's happy about going back to work. She's happy to get out of the house and away from everything in her life that's going wrong. She's a good surgeon. She's good at her job. And she needs to feel good at something right now. She's happy to get Derek away from the kids, too. Happy that he'll have some time to freaking relax, as relaxing as spending all day in rehab can be, anyway. He has appointments one after the other with his physical therapist, his speech therapist, and his occupational therapist.

She clutches the steering wheel, twisting her grip. The leather squeaks in protest. "Derek?" she says, piercing what has been a thirty-minute silence.

He doesn't move, but she can feel his eyes on her. "Yes?"

"Are you … happy?"

"When?" he says.

She swallows. "Living at the house. With me. And the kids."

She tries not to take it personally when he doesn't answer right away. Tries to give him time to think. But when she glances in his direction, his eyes are wet, and now she feels like crap all over again for bringing this up the first moment he has to breathe in two weeks. Worse, the answer is no. No, he's not happy. He doesn't even have to say it. The misery on his face says it for him.

* * *

"I don't think this is working," Meredith says, wiping her face with her hands.

The rehab counselor nods, his expression overflowing with sympathy. The counselor's name is Todd. He's a tall, rail-thin man with red hair, and he reminds Meredith of a matchstick or something. They sit in his office, her on a blue couch by a pleasant, burbling fish tank, him in a rolling chair across a small glass coffee table from her. She needs to get to work now that she's dropped Derek off for his rehab appointments. She's late for her first day in three weeks. But she wants … no, **needs** , she **needs** a sounding board.

"The adjustment period for something like this can be pretty rough," Todd says in a deep, soothing voice.

Meredith grabs a stress ball from the basket on the table and squeezes it. "My husband just spent more than twenty-nine hours in debilitating agony because he's so stressed out by the living situation that he got a migraine. This isn't rough," she says, putting the word rough in air quotes, "This is like the freaking Challenger launch." Her throat hurts. "And I don't want him to suffer like this. It's not fair to him, and he can't advocate for himself right now because he doesn't freaking understand half of what you say to him."

Except the only other option is putting Derek in a home somewhere, because he can't live by himself, and she can't do that. She can't put Derek in a home. She made him promise that he wouldn't do it to her. The mere idea that she's contemplating doing it to him, even for his own wellbeing, is .… Her chest feels like an elephant is sitting on it, and she loses it. Right there in the freaking counselor's office. Maybe, his mother would take him until Zola and Bailey get bigger. Maybe. But his mother lives in New York, and that's **so** far, like DC, and-

"Why don't you tell me what you've tried so far," Todd says in that deep, soothing voice that puts most subwoofers to shame. He leans forward, extending his arm across the table. He's holding a box of tissues.

She tells him about the talks she's had with Zola and Bailey. And about suggesting Derek flee and close the door. And the pause idea. She tells him about all the problems they've had in the past two weeks. She tells him everything. It's nice to vent. To get it out. But the elephant won't get off her chest, and her lungs hurt, and everything **hurts,** and she can't breathe. She can't breathe, thinking about all of this.

"It sounds like the two most promising suggestions you've made, the pause idea, and the enforced separation, you haven't had time to implement, yet," Todd says.

She pulls her fingers through her hair and stares at her knees. "No," she says. She sounds pathetic. "That migraine threw a wrench into everything." She feels sick thinking about it. "It was **awful**. And it's all my fault."

"I understand how hard this is. Believe me, I do. I counsel here because me and my wife went through this after she got into an accident," says Todd. "But let's not rush to judge this as a launch failure when you haven't even tried hitting the ignition, yet, okay? And nothing is your fault."

Meredith rubs her eyes. "How long did it take you to figure things out with your wife?"

"It was at least a month or two before we got out of the part where I felt like I was the most abysmal failure in the universe."

Meredith blinks in surprise. "That's how I feel right now. That's … that's .…" Todd gives her a look of empathy that's overwhelming, and she has to look at something else. The floor. Her shoes. Anywhere but at his face. Her eyes ache. Her throat aches. She aches. "Do you have kids?"

"Not as young as yours, but, yes."

Meredith nods. "Okay," she says in a croaky voice. "Okay, I'll … try. I'll try to give things more of a chance."

"That's all you can do, Meredith," Todd says. "That, and try not to beat yourself up."

* * *

Her first day back at work runs longer than she intends. She's not comfortable leaving one of her patients, Xander Parks, overnight to the attending on call. Xander is critical, less than a step shy of death's door. He has young kids and a wife who love him sobbing in the waiting room, waiting for good news, and Meredith doesn't want to lose a patient on her first day back. She ends up drafting Amelia to pick up Derek from rehab and stay with him and the kids until tomorrow.

It's not that Meredith doesn't want to go home. It's that she has a patient who can't be abandoned.

* * *

"Dr. Grey?" her intern, Dr. Peters, says, interrupting Meredith's train of thought, and her pen stops. She has to read what she wrote on Mr. Parks's chart all over again. She upgraded Mr. Parks's condition rating from critical to serious a few minutes ago, and she just needs to get this one freaking chart done, and she'll be finished with this Monday that turned into a Tuesday. She can pass all her patients off to the attending on call, and she can go home and collapse. "Dr. Grey?"

"What!" Meredith says, almost a hiss. "Couldn't you see I was busy?"

Dr. Peters has the decency to turn red, at least, and he looks away. He's carrying a lab order that Meredith told him to fill out and submit **hours** ago. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it's just … the lab is backed up, and they won't take-"

"Give me that," Meredith snaps, interrupting him. When he doesn't proffer the sheet, she sighs and snatches the paper from his hand. "See this checkbox that's labeled Expedite?" she says, pointing at the lab order. The box is unchecked. The red on Dr. Peters's face turns redder, and he nods. "See this additional signature line next to it that says Attending Approval?" Another nod. "When the lab gets backed up, you come find me again **immediately** , don't wait six hours, and we'll decide whether I need to check this box and sign. Got it?" She checks the box and signs her name as she shakes her head.

"Sorry," Dr. Peters stammers. "S-sorry."

She foists the lab order back at him. He takes it with a shaky hand. "Now, take this back to the lab, and then check on my post-op, and make sure you haven't killed him with the wait."

Dr. Peters shifts from foot to foot.

Meredith shoos him away. "Go!"

She watches Dr. Peters flee as fast as his legs can carry him. He's a big guy. Tall. And he has stupid, floppy, brown hair that spreads out like a cape behind his head when he's running for his life. She rolls her eyes at him and looks back at her chart. Now, where the hell was she?

"Wow," Amelia says, sidling up to the counter of the nurses' station Meredith has commandeered. "Someone's got a gigantic bug up her ass today."

Meredith's eyes prick as she loses her place on her chart again. God, freaking damn it. She's not sure she can speak without falling apart. "Everybody needs me all the time," she says. Her voice cracks. "Everybody. All the time. What about what **I** need?"

Amelia stares at her for a long moment. And then she steps around the counter, and she sits in the chair next to Meredith's. "Is it Derek?" she says.

Meredith rubs her temples. "I love him **so** much."

"I know you do," Amelia says softly.

"I just miss him, sometimes," Meredith says. Which is stupid. Because he's living with her. He's alive, and he's living with her, and she shouldn't miss him, and it's **stupid**. But she misses the Derek who sleeps in her bed and understands her even when she's being a nonsensical freak. She misses the Derek who can multitask and who doesn't need a referee to coexist with his own children. She misses the Derek who loves her back.

She misses **that** Derek.

"I miss him **so** much," Meredith croaks.

Amelia squeezes her shoulder. "We all do, Mere," Amelia says with sad eyes.

But Meredith wishes it was Derek. Sitting in the chair next to her. Consoling her with a kiss and some soft, soothing words before he gets up to do a hemispherectomy in OR 3. The fact that the person sitting next to her is his sister, instead, his sister who frowns like him and makes sad eyes like him, but isn't him, makes Meredith feel hollow.

She wishes Amelia was Derek.

* * *

"Daddy, wanna play Chutes and Ladders?" Zola asks. She's got the board game box tucked underneath her arm and an angelic, hopeful look on her face.

Derek's been sitting on the couch next to Meredith, not really watching the kids play so much as staring into space, while Meredith sucks down a second glass of wine, trying to erase her horrible Monday that became Tuesday. He hasn't said much of anything since Meredith returned from her shift, and the nanny left to head home. There's maybe a few minutes left before she needs to put Zola to bed. Bailey, she put down between wine glass one and wine glass two.

Derek looks at Zola. His gaze wanders to the board game box. And then back to Zola. Meredith's not sure she's seen them play this one before, but she doesn't know what they did while she was at work.

"No," Derek says.

And Meredith fights to pick up her jaw. She's never heard him say no since she brought him home. Not to the kids when they're requesting Dad time. Never. Not once.

"Please, Daddy?" Zola says. "Please?"

Derek swallows. "No," he says. And he looks at his lap.

Zola deflates, but she doesn't press the issue. Zola never gives up that easily. Ever. Unless … unless Derek's been telling her no all day, and she's given up. Which … is alarming.

"Mommy, want to play?" Zola says, a sliver of hope left in her tone.

Meredith sighs. "I'm sorry, Zozo, not tonight. I'm too tired."

Zola's disappointment is a solid, sliceable thing like cake, but Meredith can't bring herself to do anything right now. She's too fried, and she's concerned about Derek. Zola puts the board game box back on the stack, and she trudges out of the room.

Meredith turns to Derek. "Derek, are you okay?" she says.

"Yes," he says. He's still looking at his lap. This isn't normal.

She scoots across the cushion, closing the distance between them. He doesn't look at her, even when her hip is touching his. She puts her wine glass on the coffee table and wraps both arms around him. He doesn't resist, but he's not participatory, and that's not normal, either. She's been careful not to kiss him or drown him in I-love-yous, but she's been hugging and touching since she got the sex stuff straightened out with him, and he's never felt so … inanimate.

"Why didn't you want to play with her?" Meredith says.

He swallows. He swallows again. When he looks up at her, his expression breaks her heart. His eyes are wet, and his lower lip is quivering, and he looks about two inches from breaking down in her arms. "I'm …," he says. He wipes his face with the back of his hands, and he looks away. His skin mottles with a red that creeps from his cheeks to his throat and then plunges below his shirt collar. "I'm not … good."

"What are you talking about?" she says. "You're great at those!"

"They make … tired," he says. He swallows. And he sounds … defeated.

"I know these past few weeks have been frustrating for you," she says, eyes pricking. She's had a horrible day, and she can't take this, too, on top of everything else, not when the counselor convinced her yesterday to keep trying. One of the things she's been counting on is the fact that since she's brought him home, no matter how many times Derek's had a meltdown, or a moment of frustration, or some other swell of upset, he always tries again after he regroups. "I know it's been frustrating as hell. And painful. And hard. Derek, I know it. I know. But, please, don't give up. Please, don't give up, yet. I need you not to give up, yet. I need optimist Derek right now. Please."

He raises a shaky hand to his face, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't … know … what you say," he says, the words a deep, frustrated growl. "Say. S-say. You are say. You're say. **Saying**." He almost spits the last word out, and tears streak down his face.

He pulls out of her arms, grabs his cane from the arm of the sofa, wobbles to his feet, and limps out of the room.

She tries to chase him. She does. But he stops in the middle of the doorway to his bedroom, and he turns, and the look he gives her is withering. "Leave … alone." And then he slams the door in her face.

* * *

She drops a sullen Derek off at the rehab center the next day, slogs through her shift, and picks up an even worse Derek in the late afternoon, because, now, he's not only sullen, but also worn out from a day of grueling work, both mental and physical. But she has a plan. On the way to the rehab center to pick him up, she dashed into Staples and grabbed all the materials she needs. The plastic bags crinkle in the back seat as momentum during turns makes them slide around. She has a plan, if she can get him to cooperate long enough for her to implement it.

She pulls into the driveway. He clamors to get out of the car. He unclips his seatbelt, but she puts her hand on his shoulder and says, "Wait."

Rain patters on the windshield, filling the thick, oppressive silence. He looks at her, and he flops back against his seat as his eyelids droop to half-mast. "What?" he says. It's the first word he's said since she picked him up, and he sounds like he's already in a countdown to total collapse, but .…

"I want to do something tonight before dinner," Meredith says.

He rubs his eyes and thinks. And then he deflates even more. "I'm … tired," he says.

"I know," she replies. "I know you are. But, please. For me. Will you do it?"

He rubs his temples, digesting what she's said. "Do … what?"

"You'll see," she says.

She doesn't want to tell him, now, because then he'll never freaking do it, and they need to do this. They **need** it. She needs to yank her family out of this freaking tailspin, and she needs to push Derek out of this funk before it becomes legitimate depression, and she needs to do it yesterday. She thinks the fact that he's tired might even help her cause, because she needs to demonstrate that her plan is going to work, and she can only do that when he has a clear shutdown moment pending, one where she can intervene.

He licks his lips. "Okay," he says, sounding about as happy about this development as a lobster in a boiling pot.

He pushes open the door and tries to stand, but he's on the passenger side of the car, and he has to use the right side of his body for leverage. His weak side. Which he's already trashed in physical therapy today. His hand won't grip the frame of the car. His fingertips slide against the metal with a squeak, and his palm slips off the side. His leg doesn't want to support his weight long enough for him to shuffle into a standing position and lean on his cane, either.

"Wait," she says, and she scurries around the car to help him before he can fixate on the fact that he's stuck and helpless in addition to everything else going wrong for him lately. After she gets him on his feet with his cane in hand, she lets him go, and she grabs her bounty from the back seat.

When they get inside, she directs him to the dining room table, and then says her goodbyes to the nanny before rounding up the kids. She grabs the Chutes and Ladders box from the board game stack and heads to the table with the kids. The second Derek sees what's in her hands, he gets a horrible, victimized, _why-are-you-doing-this-to-me_? look on his face, and she tries to project reassurance in his direction, but he looks away.

She sets up the game. The chandelier is bright, and the lights glow against the pristine surface of the game board. Carolyn brought the game with her as a gift when she visited a few weeks before Derek was released, and the board hasn't had time to wear down, yet. Before they start to play Chutes and Ladders, though, she says, "Okay. We're going to play a game on top of a game tonight."

Zola says, "Two games at once?" in a tone that suggests she's found a swimming pool full of ice cream.

"Yep," Meredith says, gluing the biggest smile she can manage onto her face. "Two games at once. Double the fun!" Rain hits the roof, a soothing drumbeat.

Bailey says, "Coowuh!"

"What's the second game?" Zola says.

Derek glowers. He yanks his hands through his hair in an agitated gesture, but he says nothing. A lump forms in her throat, despite her smile – her stupid, **fake** smile – and she hates this. Doing this to him. If this backfires, and she ends up pushing him into another meltdown herself, and on purpose .… No. She won't think about that right now. She feels guilty enough as it is.

She pulls out the dry-erase, magnetic chore chart she bought, along with a big packet of star magnets. The chart has a column for each day, and each row is preceded by a blank line where she can fill in the name of the chore she wants done. She's decided to repurpose this chart. While the kids both watch, she crosses out the day names for each column, and she relabels them 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. On the rows, she writes everybody's names. Bailey, Zola, Daddy, Mommy. She skips four lines between every name.

"Here's the rules," Meredith says. "Whenever a grownup says pause – any grownup – nobody can talk to Daddy. You can talk to anybody else, just not Daddy. Make sense so far?" She doesn't set a specific time requirement on the pause, because they're little kids, and getting them to pause even for a couple seconds will be a miracle. She hopes a couple seconds is enough to help.

"What if I'm already talking to Daddy?" Zola says.

Meredith nods. "That's a really tough one, I know. But you have to stop, and either be quiet, or talk to somebody else."

"Even in the middle?" Zola says.

"Yes," Meredith says, nodding. "Even mid-sentence. Stop, and talk to somebody else."

"Or be quiet," Zola says.

Meredith nods again. "Yes. That's right."

"Why we do dat?" Bailey says.

"Because that's the game!" Meredith says, injecting as much enthusiasm into the words as she can scrape from her depleting reserves. "Whenever you stop talking, you get a star in one of these boxes." Meredith picks up the magnets and puts a star magnet in her first row in the column labeled 1. "Every time you fill a row on this chart with stars, you earn a reward."

"What reward?" Bailey says.

"I don't have examples right this second, but I'm going to go to the dollar store tomorrow to stock up on some things for you to pick," Meredith says. "You'll get a choice of toys, candy, and coupons for things like staying up fifteen minutes later."

Zola claps and bounces in her seat. "That's so cool!" she exclaims. "And all we gotta do is not talk to Daddy?"

"When a grownup says pause; that's right," Meredith says, nodding.

"But what about Daddy?" Zola says. She looks at Derek and bites her lip. She has a pensive expression. "Can Daddy talk to Daddy?"

Meredith resists the urge to laugh. "If Daddy wants to talk to himself, he's allowed to do that, but he's the only one."

"How does Daddy get stars, then?" Zola wants to know.

Meredith thinks for a moment. "Daddy gets a star when one of us doesn't stop talking to him. Got it?"

Zola nods. Bailey's frowning like he's a bit perplexed, but Meredith thinks his uncertainty will clear up when they start doing instead of talking. Derek seems .… Well, she's not sure he's even trying to understand what she's saying. He's not looking at her, that's for sure, but he doesn't need to know the rules of the pause game; he just needs to see that it works. She **hopes** it works, anyway.

She swallows. Okay, then. Here goes nothing.

"Derek, do you know how to play Chutes and Ladders?" she says. She's hoping no.

Derek sighs and looks at the board setup. He looks at the grid. And the ladders. And the chutes. He props up his head with the heels of his hands, jamming his elbows against the table, and he slumps like he's already convinced he'll suck at this. She hurts to see him so dejected. He shakes his head after a few moments and says, "No," the word glum.

Meredith nods and smiles at him. "That's okay." She looks at Zola, and then at Bailey. "Can you guys explain it to him together?"

Just as she suspects, asking them both to do it at once sets off a rapid-fire tag team situation.

"You gotta use spin-y fing," Bailey says.

Zola adds, "You go the number of spaces it says."

"Chutes go down!" Bailey says.

Zola says, "Ladders go up!"

The tag team does what she thinks it's going to do. She can tell from the look on Derek's face, and the way his eyes shift back and forth, and the way his breathing funnels, that he's lost already, so she says, "Pause!"

"Have to get to the top," Bailey says, oblivious, but Zola's already got her hands clapped across her mouth, and Bailey's eyes widen. "Oops." He looks at Meredith. "Can talk to you, Mommy?"

Meredith nods, keeping an eye on Derek. "Of course, you can. How was your day today?"

"Was good!" Bailey says. Meredith makes a show of adding stars to Zola's and Bailey's first rows, and she gives them both a thumbs up and a smile while Bailey babbles. Zola bounces when she sees a star get added to her row. "Medody took us to curtoise pace!" Bailey continues. "And when we get home we make paper airpanes!"

Meredith smiles. "You did?" she says, "That's neat! Do you have any paper airplanes to show me, later?"

Bailey nods. Derek seems to have calmed down, and he's looking at the board again. "It … start at … one?" he says, the words halting and slow.

Zola looks at Meredith. "Mommy, can I talk to Daddy, yet?"

Meredith grins. "Yes. If Daddy asks a question, that cancels the pause."

Zola turns to Derek. "You start here." She pokes the first square with her index finger. "You go this way." Then she traces the number spaces left to right, then right to left, then left to right, then right to left, and so on and so forth, until she hits the 100. "You win when you get here."

Derek stares at the board for a long moment. "Okay." He swallows. "When .…" He closes his eyes, and he takes a short breath. "When … use … ladder?"

Bailey says, "When your piece end on it."

Derek parses that with a deepening frown, and Meredith has a tense moment where she thinks Bailey may have flummoxed him. But then Derek says, "… Okay."

"Are we ready to start?" Meredith says, and everybody nods.

They play one round of Chutes and Ladders, and Meredith engineers a situation that needs pause by encouraging Bailey to tell Derek about his paper airplane. When Derek looks stressed, Meredith says, "Pause!" Bailey stops right away this time. They play on. Zola wins round one, and they start game two. When Derek's spun the dial, and he's trying to count his first move, Meredith nudges Zola and says, "See if Daddy knows the names of your ponies." Zola asks about Pinky Pie and Twilight Sparkle before Derek's looking like he's getting upset. "Pause!" Zola stops, and Meredith asks her about Applejack to help her re-focus her attention on someone else. Derek wins game two. On the third game round, Meredith tells them to sing their favorite songs. At the same time. And they both want to one-up each other, so they both sing louder, and louder, and louder. As soon as Derek starts to curl away, she blurts, "Pause!" This time, Bailey gets it and Zola misses the cue, but they're both quiet within a few seconds of Meredith uttering the word. Zola wins again on game round three. They plunge into round four. Another pause. A win for Meredith. Round five. Another pause. A win for Zola again.

Meredith keeps hoping Derek will get the idea and use pause himself, but just seeing him navigate horrible conversation after horrible conversation without having a meltdown, just seeing the kids having fun with this "game," is enough to make Meredith want to jump out of her chair and dance it out. Because she really thinks she's onto something. Even if Derek doesn't have the presence of mind to blurt pause when he's getting overwhelmed, any observer who sees him struggling can do it. It's an easy thing Meredith can teach to Melody, Amelia, Maggie, anybody.

She stops after game five, because she doesn't want to keep pushing Derek when he's exhausted, and she thinks six pauses is enough to show him that it works. The kids both have five stars on the chart, and Derek has none. He slogs off to his room without giving much indication about his state of mind, and she watches him go, biting her lip. God, she freaking hopes she's figured this out. Hope flutters.

* * *

On Thursday morning, she makes sure to let Melody know about pause. On Thursday evening, Meredith stops at the dollar store on the way home and grabs all sorts of goodies for the kids to pick. When she gets home, she notices both kids got two more stars each during the day, and Derek got one, which means, though there was one failure, Melody used pause successfully several times during the day. Since both kids now have a full row of magnets, Meredith lets them each pick goodies out of her new stockpile. Bailey picks a little car, and Zola grabs some new crayons.

After she resets the magnet board so that all the rows other than Derek's are blank, Meredith does the same thing that she did on Wednesday. Pause, pause, pause. She adds star magnets to the chart as they go. Derek still doesn't use the word, but Meredith doesn't lose hope, because she makes the kids practice all evening, and all evening, Derek doesn't have a problem, even though evenings are his worst time of day. That's two days in a row she's kept him on an even keel despite chaos. On Friday, Derek's exhausted from rehab again, and she doesn't torture him this time, but she does engineer one pause before bedtime. She'll keep driving it in daily if she has to, at least for a little while. Between her and Melody, progress will happen. Meredith's sure of it.

* * *

Amelia visits for dinner on Saturday evening, and the five of them sit at the dinner table. Bailey's picking at some macaroni and cheese with his fingers, not paying much attention to what's going on at the table. Meredith scoots close and keeps trying to urge him to use the fork, but he's having none of that today, and she doesn't have the energy right now to discipline him. Maybe, that makes her a crappy mom. Maybe. But she's too tired to care.

"Daddy, do you remember the hopspital?" Zola says after she finishes her last piece of hot dog.

Derek wipes his mouth with a napkin and sets it on his empty plate. "Working there?"

"No," Zola says. "After the brain cut."

Meredith looks up, surprised.

"The … brain cut?" Derek says, frowning.

"The cut in your head," Zola clarifies.

Derek thinks for a long moment, and Meredith wonders if he still doesn't understand what Zola is driving at – Meredith never told him that's how she explained his TBI to Zola – but he doesn't ask for further clarification. His left hand wanders to his head, and he touches his skull just behind his hairline at the top of his left temple. "I remember some," he says.

"How much?"

"Some months."

"What about when you didn't talk?" Zola says.

He shakes his head. "I don't remember this."

"Why?"

"It's called … called," he says, starting to stumble. He thinks for a long moment, mouth opening and closing as he tries to eject a word from the tangle in his head. Eventually, he manages, "It's called anterograde … amnesia."

Meredith is surprised sometimes by the complicated neuro terms he knows, but he's had what's happened to him explained to him more than once, and he must have **some** fragmented memories about his chosen specialty. Combined, she imagines if he's going to relearn crazy medical terms, these would be the ones that would stick.

"What's am … amneesha?" Zola says, frowning.

Derek thinks with an odd look on his face. Meredith grins despite herself. He's not used to being asked for definitions. The tables are flipped, for once. "Not … having," he says. He pauses. "… Remember." He makes a face. "Mem. Memory."

Zola squints. "What's ant … anto … antor … gade?"

"Anterograde," Meredith interjects on some sort of ingrained mom reflex, which she then regrets, because it shatters Derek's concentration, and he looks at Meredith, a jarred expression on his face. Crap. Crappity, crap, crap, **crap**.

"What's antorgade?" Zola demands.

Derek looks flustered, now. He looks back and forth between Meredith and Zola before his gaze resettles on Zola. "It happen … after," he says, losing cogency, now that his focus has been obliterated. "After … cut … hap … happen."

"That's weird," Zola says. "Why?"

"I .…"

"And how does a brain cut make your leg not work?"

"I .…" Derek blinks, but just when Meredith's donning her referee cap, he says, "P-Pause."

And Zola does. She busies herself with one of her leftover strands of green bean. She's only eaten about two-thirds of the original serving. She looks at Meredith. "Mommy, do I **have** to eat this part?"

Meredith is speechless, and something warm burgeons in her chest as her eyes prick. Pause. He said pause. He didn't meltdown. And nothing bad happened.

"Yes, eat it," she manages, staring at Derek. He looks like he's calming down and catching up, and he freaking said pause. He tried it.

Zola makes a yuck face, but forks some of the green beans into her mouth.

"Remind me to give you a star when we're done at the table, okay?" Meredith says.

Zola beams.

"So, why doesn't your leg work?" Zola says after she finishes chewing.

Derek licks his lips. "I … can't … explain."

Amelia smiles and jumps in. "Your brain controls your entire body, Zola. When it gets a cut, sometimes it can't send messages to the rest of the body very well."

"What does that mean?" Zola says.

Amelia glances at Derek. And then at Meredith.

Derek seems fine with this conversation. Not offended. He's never acted like he doesn't like talking about his injury, not that he talks about it much to begin with. No, the primary issue right now seems only to be that he's not able to verbalize all this complicated stuff, let alone package the information in a way that a five-year-old might understand.

Meredith shrugs.

Amelia takes this as license to continue and says, "It means that when your Daddy's brain tells his leg to move, his leg can't hear it very well."

"Oh," Zola says. She makes another yuck face and shovels the rest of her green beans. She chews messily. And then she looks at Derek. "Does it hurt?"

Derek swallows. "My … leg?"

"Yeah."

He shakes his head. "No." He smiles a little. "It doesn't hurt."

"That's good," Zola says.

Bailey babbles at his food, not making much sense beyond the boundaries of his personal universe.

And everything is … sedate. A nice family dinner.

Meredith swallows. Pause. Maybe, they've finally figured this crap out. Between pause, rest breaks with the bedroom door shut, the kids getting a better understanding about what's going on with their father, and practice, practice, practice .… Maybe, she can surrender her whistle, and stop worrying about refereeing every waking moment that she's home. Maybe.

Hope takes flight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:** Thank you so much for the feedback! A couple people asked this, so I'll answer here, too. Yes, you'll see more of Amelia in this story, along with lots of other supporting characters from the show, and some familiar original faces from other stories of mine. I'd also like to add that, though this story is "complete" in a technical sense, due to the structure of the story, there's plenty of room to add more if I decide to add it. Feedback helps me shape the narrative in this respect. So, don't be shy!

Anyway, this is one of my favorite chapters. I hope you enjoy this. Leave me a note, and let me know what you think :)

* * *

 **Week five.**

On Monday, when Meredith picks up Derek from rehab, he seems tired, and there's an underlying vein of sadness in his demeanor that wasn't there when she brought him home the first time. His shoulders slump, and he has dark circles hugging his eyes. He doesn't talk to her when he gets into the car. He's been making much less of an effort to talk since his migraine, only responding, rather than trying to converse. But he didn't hide in his room at all on the weekend, except the bare minimum for break times. On Sunday morning, she found him curled up on the couch with Bailey in his lap and Zola sprawled beside him while they watched cartoons, and she's hoping. She's hoping so hard that he's in the process of snapping out of his funk, just that it's not an instant fix like surgery.

She reaches across the parking brake, puts a hand on his knee, and squeezes. He looks at her hand, and he swallows, but he says nothing, and then he's back to staring out the window. "Hey," she says, trying to draw him out a little. "How did physical therapy go today?"

"The same," he says, and she doesn't miss the fact that he sounds a bit depressed about that.

"They're still working on your grip?" she says.

He sighs. "Yes. And walk."

He lets the conversation die there, and she bites her lip, not sure how to proceed. She's not a chatty person. She's never been a chatty person. Before the accident, Derek had more than enough words for the both of them, and he could draw her into a long, involved conversation about nothing at all with no more than a whim to fuel him. She misses talking to him. Just … talking. Not to show him what something means or how something works or to soothe hurt feelings, but for no other reason than to talk.

"I had a pretty good day today," she says to fill the silence as she pulls the car out of the rehab center's parking lot. "No interns screwed up, and nobody died." She waits and lets him absorb that. "I helped Miranda get a Buckyball out of a three-year-old, too."

"Interns … are … student," he says. He makes a face dripping with irritation that far outweighs the magnitude of his grammatical slip. "Students."

"Yes," she says. "And a Buckyball is made of tiny metal balls that stick to each other. It's bad to swallow."

"Oh," he says.

She bites her lip at the wrongness of this conversation. The fact that he didn't latch onto the word balls and make a stupid, porny joke about it. Not that she ever expected him to make a porny joke when she said it, but now that he hasn't, it feels … wrong. Not to mention the pervasive, clogging sense of wrongness with Derek in general right now.

"Derek, are you okay?"

"No," he says, surprising her again, because since she's brought him home, he's been the king of denial with that question, always saying yes when it's clear he's anything but okay.

"Can I help?" she says.

His mouth opens and closes, and he looks away, and she's not sure what to do, whether to push him or give him space. Pushing him to talk seems like a recipe for another migraine. Giving him space seems like she's donning pom poms in support of him backflipping off the diving board into full-blown depression, something he's extra vulnerable to thanks to his injury. His mouth opens and closes again. And again.

Eventually he just says, "No."

She decides to leave him be. For now. But she'll keep an eye on things.

* * *

Derek disappears into his bedroom the moment they get home. To retreat or to crash, she's not sure which. Either way, the request for space is a clear one, even if it's not spoken, and she doesn't bug him.

With Derek in hiding, this is the perfect time to prepare, so she gathers paper and crayons and glitter and glue and safety scissors and markers and whatever other artistic things she can think of. She sits the kids down at the dining room table and puts them to work, not that it's work for them. Zola and Bailey both dive into their task with gusto.

"We give to Dada, now?" Bailey wants to know as he drags a red crayon across his paper, making a jagged mark that reminds Meredith of lightning.

"No," Meredith says. "We need to wait until Sunday."

"Okay," he says.

"Mommy, I need help with the writing," Zola says.

Meredith nods. "Just a minute, Zozo. Let me finish this, first."

Meredith works on her own "gift." She takes a recent picture of Bailey and a recent picture of Zola, both dated, stuffs them into an envelope, licks the glue, making a face at the yucky taste, and seals it. She doesn't include a letter or anything with the pictures – she won't waste time on that. Thatcher never asks for this stuff. He never replies to her mailings, either. And ever since Lexie died, Thatcher won't answer the phone or the door or anything – Meredith's not even sure if he knows Derek was in an accident. Maybe, someday, Thatcher will want something to do with his reject daughter and her family again. She refuses to be the person who closes the door.

The envelopes with the pictures are her way of saying, "We're still here, if you decide to care."

She doesn't waste emotion on the fact that he doesn't, though. She's long since learned not to get her hopes up with regards to him. Every time she does, she gets burned.

* * *

On Tuesday, Meredith gets home late in the evening. Bailey is already asleep, and Derek and Zola are playing on the dining room table. Chutes and Ladders. Meredith sighs with relief to see the board game out and in use. Aside from the games she's forced Derek to play for the purposes of demonstrating pause, she hasn't seen him play something with Zola or Bailey since before his migraine.

"Have they been playing a lot today?" Meredith whispers to Melody before the nanny leaves for the night.

Melody brushes her fingers through her frizzy brown hair and says, "No. Zola kept asking all day. He caved about an hour before you came home."

"Well, that's an improvement," Meredith says. "That's improvement, right?"

Melody puts a hand on Meredith's shoulder. "Yes, but … he seems withdrawn. I have no normal comparison for it, because he's been withdrawn since you introduced us last week, but .…" Melody looks back into the house, to where Zola and Derek are playing with a concerned look on her face. "Something's just not right with him."

Meredith bites her lip and nods. When the front door closes, she does her best to paste on a smile. She grabs a serving of some sort of chicken and rice dish being kept warm in the oven. Derek eyeballs her plate like a cat keeping track of a mouse as she carries it to the table to watch him and Zola play.

"Hi, Mommy!" Zola says.

"Hey, Zozo," she says as she settles into the chair next to Derek. She glances at the board. There are four pieces on the board, not two. "So, who's winning?"

Derek doesn't say anything, but Zola points at the piece in the lead with a big grin on her face. She says, "This me is winning!" And then she frowns at the piece farthest behind on the board. "That me isn't."

Meredith nods, watching. This doesn't seem like a rule-change-needs-intervention scenario. Just a two-games-is-better-than-one thing. And Derek seems fine. Not chatty. But fine. And he's playing again, and seeing that makes Meredith's heart squeeze. She wishes she could help him more, but she'll settle for knowing he might be getting better, despite what the nanny said.

Meredith starts on her dinner. Her first forkful is warm bliss, and she sighs. The chicken's been marinated in something, and is moist enough that it almost falls apart on her tongue without her having to chew, and whatever's mixed in with the rice makes her mouth a happy place. "Mmm," she purrs.

Derek's looking at her when she opens her eyes. "This is so good!" Meredith says to him. "Have you had some?"

"Yes," he says. "Dinner." He stares at her for a long moment, like he's peeling off layers. Not in a sexual way, but rather deep in thought. Before she can ask what he's thinking, though ….

"Daddy, your turn," their daughter says, and grabs his attention away from her.

* * *

It's Wednesday, and Meredith and Alex sit in the cafeteria, killing one of the boring time bubbles that tend to happen between bursts of emergent, frenetic activity. She reads from an article dated November 6, 1999 about families adjusting to a family member with a TBI. The thing that stopped her dead when she found it in the hospital's library was that it was written by Derek. Well, not by Derek, but he was listed in the article as a key contributor. A psychologist named Dr. Schuyler used Derek's patients over the course of three years. He collated the results from multiple interviews with the family members of more than fifty post-ops over those three years, and wrote an article detailing common and uncommon findings of family behavior in the aftermath. The cruel irony makes her throat hurt every time she looks at the title page, so, she pointedly doesn't look at it.

"I have to be flexible with my expectations and not view the past as a measuring stick to determine how things are supposed to be in the now," Meredith says, reading from page four of the twenty-page article. The cafeteria is bustling with activity. She sees April and Jackson wander past with bowls of cereal.

Alex snorts and reaches for a chip. The foil bag crinkles as he searches, frowns, and comes back with an empty hand.

"What?" Meredith says, putting down her highlighter with an affronted smack. "I'm flexible. I'm very flexible!" Even Derek has said so.

"Mere, all you do with me lately is talk about Derek."

"So? My husband survived a horrific wreck by the skin of his teeth. Why shouldn't I be talking about him?"

"So," Alex says in a patient tone, "what you're talking about is always either something new he's done that shows you he's 'your' Derek, or your frustration over something he's not doing that he used to do."

"Well …," she says, frowning, "of course, I want my Derek back."

"That's what the article is saying, though," Alex says. "It's okay to want him back, but you can't let having him back be the only thing that will let you be happy. You have to be happy with who he is, **now**. The now Derek **is** your Derek."

Meredith blinks.

"Look," Alex says. He crumples up his empty chip bag and shoots it like a basketball into the nearby trashcan. "All I'm saying is … if this is your definition of flexible, I think you're in trouble."

"But … how am I even supposed to fix that?"

Alex shrugs. "I don't know, Mere. I'm no shrink."

* * *

"I need to know how to be more flexible," Meredith blurts as she pokes her head into Dr. Wyatt's office. It's not that Meredith planned to see Dr. Wyatt, because she doesn't need a therapist. She doesn't. It's just that she somehow found herself walking by Dr. Wyatt's office, and the door was wide open, and there wasn't any sign that said, "No barging in allowed." Somehow.

Dr. Wyatt sits behind her desk with her reading glasses on. The clackity-clack-clack-clack of her typing stops as she lifts her fingers from the keyboard and looks up at Meredith. She stares for a long moment with no recognition in her eyes. Meredith realizes it's been more than seven years since she's last stepped foot in this office, and, maybe, she should have called the freaking secretary first, even though there wasn't a no-barging-allowed sign.

But she needs to know. She doesn't need a therapist. She wants .… She isn't even sure.

"Dr. Grey," Dr. Wyatt says as recognition dawns on her face. She frowns. "Did we have an appointment?"

"No," Meredith says, frozen on the threshold. "Crap. I'm sorry. This was stupid. I don't need a therapist. I'm sorry." She turns to leave, but movement in the corner of her eye drags her focus back into Dr. Wyatt's office.

Dr. Wyatt glances at her watch, looks up at the ceiling while she performs some mental calculations, and then gestures to her couch. "Have a seat," she says.

Meredith bites her lip and stutter-steps to the couch. She looks down at it. She hasn't sat here since .… She frowns. She's never sat here, she realizes, because this is a new couch. The fabric is a sunshine-colored suede, and, come to think of it, the whole office has been re-painted. Everything is … bright like a supernova threw up, or .… It's … so … yellow.

Dr. Wyatt steps out from behind her desk and drops into a large brown-leather executive chair with wheels on its feet. "So, what brings you here?" Dr. Wyatt says.

"Alex thinks I'm not being flexible about Derek's situation. But I am, right? I'm being very flexible!"

Dr. Wyatt's lip twitches like she's fighting not to act unprofessional and smile or laugh or something. "Can you back up and give me some context?"

Meredith glances at the fish tank along the wall and wonders if all the fish are new, too. Even the stress balls in the little basket on the coffee table are new – she knows because they're a different color. Everything is … different.

"Meredith?" Dr. Wyatt prods.

Meredith shakes her head and sighs. "I don't know if you heard, but my husband was in a horrible car accident about a year ago."

"Your husband is Dr. Shepherd. Derek. Right?" Dr. Wyatt says.

"Yes," Meredith says. "He hit his head, and it's .… He has a traumatic brain injury, and it's .…" She shakes her head as her eyes water. "It's like he's gone. He's alive, but it's like he's gone, and I .…" She's not sure how it happens, but she finds herself telling Dr. Wyatt everything. From the time the police showed up at Meredith's door to tell her Derek was dead to now, where she's struggling to reintegrate him back into the house. It's a big, gushing, polysyllabic, embarrassing, run-on-sentence weeping-fest, and she hates herself for it, hates that she's falling apart. "I mean, things seem better, now, with the pausing and the breaks, but … it's not how I imagined it would be."

Dr. Wyatt nods. "How did you imagine it would be?"

"He won't even sleep in the same bed with me. I mean, I expected a learning curve, but … not this. Nothing like this."

"And you believe that him sleeping in the same bed with you would fix everything?" Dr. Wyatt says, raising her eyebrows.

"No, but .…" Meredith sighs. "I don't know. And Alex says I need to learn to be happy with what I have, but how can I be happy when my husband doesn't even love me?"

Dr. Wyatt nods. "It can be rough participating in a relationship with a huge emotional imbalance like this. Where one partner is far more invested than the other."

"It's awful," Meredith says. "It's .… Please, I don't know what to do. Is there some trick I'm missing? How am I supposed to be 'flexible' about something like this?"

"You say he doesn't remember much," Dr. Wyatt says.

"He doesn't. His whole life is scrambled eggs in his head. He remembers bits and pieces, but .…" She swallows. She thinks about the secret wife. And their dog dying. And losing her panties to the hospital bulletin board. And taking space. And starting fresh. And drowning. And break-up sex. And fighting. And the candle house. And makeup sex. And moving in together. And the elevator proposal. And the Post-it. And the shooting. And the miscarriage. And trying to get pregnant. And the courthouse wedding. And more fighting. And the adoption of Zola. And **more** fighting. And more makeup sex. And the plane crash. And the dream house. And the birth of Bailey. The memories are a flood, and they're bowling her over in the crush, and Derek .… Derek's lost all that. Derek's lost their entire romance, save for a few odds and ends that don't connect in any sort of line.

"It's all gone," Meredith says, truly conceptualizing for the first time what's happened. What's died. Derek's not dead, but **they** are. Meredith and Derek are dead. And she can't breathe. She can't breathe again. "Our entire history is just … gone. He doesn't know me anymore. And there's not going to be any magical eureka moment where it all floods back. There's no fixing it. His brain got smashed. It's a miracle he's alive in the first place." She wipes her face with the backs of her palms.

"Well, let me ask you a question," Dr. Wyatt says.

Meredith sniffs. "What?"

"Do you know Derek?"

She blinks. "Of course, I know Derek. What kind of a question is that? I'm not the one who hit my head."

"I know that, Meredith, but you said he has almost no memories. People with traumatic brain injuries tend to have shifts in their personalities, sometimes dramatic ones. You know Derek from before he hit his head, but do you know Derek, now?"

"He doesn't kiss me," she says. "He did, once, but he hasn't done it again in over a month, now, and I'm starting to think it was a fluke. He lets me touch him, but he almost never initiates. And he's **so** hard to talk to, not just because he doesn't know the words, but … he used to get me. He used to get me, and now he doesn't."

Dr. Wyatt nods. "Yes, but these are all transient behaviors that may not even stick as he navigates through his recovery process. Do you know him as a person anymore?"

Meredith's mouth opens. Closes. "I .…"

"What's his favorite thing to do, now?"

She shakes her head. "I don't .…"

"What's his favorite kind of music?"

"It used to be punk rock," Meredith says.

Dr. Wyatt nods. "But you're not sure anymore."

Meredith swallows. The one time she tried to give Derek his iPod in rehab, he wanted nothing to do with it, and she thinks, looking back on it, that the noise might have bothered him. Screw what kind of music he likes, now, she thinks; she's not even sure he likes music at **all** , anymore. "No. I'm not. I'm not sure," she says. Blush creeps across her face, and she feels a sudden need to vindicate herself. "He likes baseball! He still likes baseball!"

Dr. Wyatt gives her a soft smile. "Meredith, I'm not trying to attack you. I'm trying to draw your attention to something important."

"Which is?"

"This is a huge adjustment period, not just for him, but for you, too. And from what you've told me, you've spent the lion's share of your time getting him healthy enough to leave rehab, and then integrating him with your home and with the kids, but almost no time whatsoever integrating him with **you**."

"How do I even do that, though?" Meredith says.

Dr. Wyatt shrugs. "Well, how did you do that the first time?"

"You're saying I should date my husband," Meredith says, tone flat. "Who I'm already married to."

"I'm saying, maybe, in the process of getting to know each other again, you'll find out enough about who Derek is now that losing who he was before won't be so painful for you. And, maybe, he'll find out enough about you that he'll start doing the things you hope he'll do. Like kiss you. And touch you. And sleep in the same bed. And love you."

Her throat hurts. "Maybe."

Dr. Wyatt gives her a sympathetic look. "Nothing is ever certain. But wouldn't it be better to know?"

"I'm not sure," Meredith says. And she's not. She's not sure at all. Because what if he doesn't love her? The circumstances in his life are so different now. The circumstances in her life, too. She's not just a girl in a bar, anymore, and he's not just a guy. He's not upset about Addison and Mark having sex in his bed anymore, because Addison and Mark are part of the scrambled eggs. At least, she thinks they are. The issues with Addison are what drove him to get to know Meredith, and what happens, now, when there's no marital implosion encouraging him to seek solace in alcohol and meaningless sex? What happens when there's nothing pushing him toward Meredith but a few wispy memories? And … what if she finds nothing for herself? What if she realizes the Derek she wants and needs is just … dead? "I don't know."

Dr. Wyatt nods. "Think about it." She glances at her watch. "I have another session in a minute, so I have to wrap this up with you, and I know you said you don't need one, but … if you do decide you need a therapist after all, please call my secretary and make an appointment."

Meredith doesn't miss the polite scolding underlying in Dr. Wyatt's tone, and Meredith has the good sense to look sheepish. "I'm sorry. I'll call next time. I swear."

* * *

Meredith drives to the rehab center in the rain. Her windshield wipers whip back and forth, trying to keep the windshield clear, but they're old and dirty and need to be replaced, and they're not doing a very good job with the downpour. She slows behind a sea of red taillights exercising similar caution. Of course, there are still some morons in the left lane zipping by like the pavement isn't even wet, and she snorts. They're speeding toward the emergency room is what they're doing. She glances at her watch. She's already running late.

The rain is thunder on the roof of her car, and she's soaked from dashing through the parking lot from the hospital to get to her Jeep. When she fiddles with the radio dial, all she gets is static, so she gives up on that. All she has is silence in her head, and the pounding of the rain.

Who is Derek Shepherd, now?

Her fingers tighten around the steering wheel when she thinks about what Dr. Wyatt said. The idea of dating her husband feels too stupid for words. They already did the dating thing, years ago, and she loves that, before the accident, they were in a place where dating wasn't needed anymore, because they knew each other, and he got her even on her freakiest days, and she got him, even in his darkest hours. They had a rough patch, yes, but … in the days leading up to his accident, things felt not just good, but idyllic. Maybe, though, Dr. Wyatt has a point. Meredith's been so fixated on getting him through the next set of goal posts, getting him to wake up, getting him to talk, getting him to walk, getting him home, getting him to live with the kids, getting him to be the Derek who kisses her and sleeps in her bed and tells her he loves her, that she hasn't stopped to think about what any of this freaking means.

What does Derek like to do, now? She's not sure. Does he still like the Clash? Or has the obliteration of his memories left him a clean slate? She doesn't know. She doesn't know if he still likes single-malt scotch, or coffee-flavored ice cream, or fly-fishing, or horrible novels by Hemingway, or the color indigo. She doesn't know if he still won't dance in public, hates _Star Wars_ , or … anything. She doesn't know if he's still into the black and white of it all, or if he's found a little gray. She doesn't know if he's a hopeless romantic, or a family man, or a shark, or none of the above. She doesn't know whether his current lack of humor is a product of his stressed situation or his brain damage, though given her glimpse of his teasing over pancakes, she leans toward the situation being the culprit.

He's not a morning person anymore, nor is he a health-food nut. And he still likes baseball.

What she doesn't know far outweighs what she does.

Come to think of it, she's not even sure if he knows any of these things, either. His world for the past year has been a small one. The rehab center. Their home. And that's it. How can one cultivate tastes in such a limited environment? And how hasn't he gone insane with stir craziness? He can't drive anymore. He's almost a prisoner. Or, maybe he **has** gone stir crazy, and she doesn't know it, because he can't tell her, or because it hasn't occurred to him to **try** to tell her. Hell, maybe his recent coil of unhappiness has something to do with the fact that he feels trapped. Trapped in a life with people who stress him out and confuse him.

When she pulls up to the rehab center, her mind is churning.

Who the hell is Derek Shepherd?

Derek's waiting just inside the rehab center's main door for her, and he limps through the soaking rain to the car the moment she's come to a complete stop. She's struck by the weirdness. Watching him walk through a downpour at a sedate pace, but it's not like he can run or even run-walk. By the time he pulls open the door of her car and climbs into the front seat, he's soaked, and he's shivering. She leans over and opens the vents on his side of the car, so the heat will hit him as well. She can hear his teeth clacking, and she wishes she had a towel or something for him.

"Hi," she says.

He looks at her. His hair is a wet, curly, dripping mess, and his eyes are a shock of blue against his pale skin. His forest green t-shirt looks black, and his stonewashed jeans have darkened, too. "Hello," he says. He settles into the seat, resting his shoulder and head against the window, and his eyelids dip. He blinks like his eyes are made of molasses.

She squeezes his wet knee. "How was physical therapy today?" she says, because it's a safe fallback.

He glances at her, and he shrugs, but he doesn't speak. He puts his right hand on his thigh. He flexes his fingers and runs his palm along his wet jeans. He can make a loose fist when he's rested, but about a week before his release, she held that hand while he gripped her palm as hard as he could, and he couldn't mash her knuckles closer together, not even a little.

She sighs at his non-engagement. "How was speech therapy?" she asks, grasping for anything that might get a conversation going.

That gets a response. He looks at her. He takes a short, clipped, upset breath and blows it out. His gaze is sharp and jagged, like cut glass. His lower lip quivers. And then he looks away.

She swallows. "Not so good?"

He rubs his eyes. "I h … hate t-talk. Talk." He looks disgusted with himself. " **Talking**."

Her heart hurts. "I'm sorry," she says. "We don't have to."

He says nothing in response, and she puts the car into gear and pulls out of the parking lot. The rain hasn't let up even a little, and traffic creeps along so slowly they probably could walk home faster, even considering Derek's leg. She sighs, and the silence stretches. As the warm air blows on him, Derek's teeth stop chattering, but he still shivers.

"I have remember," he says out of the blue, staring out of the window into the thick rain.

"Memories of what?" she says.

"When it not .…" He thinks for a long moment. She guides her Jeep to the edge of the lane, giving a car parked on the shoulder as much space as she can. "When I can."

She swallows, a horrible pit forming in her stomach when she thinks she knows where he's going with this. "When you could speak fluently?" she says.

"What is … fluently?"

"Um," she says, trying to think of a good way to put it for him. "Like me. I speak English fluently."

He churns on that for a moment. "Yes," he says. "I can see … in h … head." He sighs. "I don't know how I .…" When she glances away from the road, she sees him staring at her with wet eyes as he struggles to come up with what he wants to say. "I need think." A wince. "Think **so** hard … to … say … word."

Her eyes sting. She can't imagine that. Remembering doing something with ease, but, in hindsight, not knowing how to ever duplicate it again. She imagines it's a bit like losing both legs, but remembering days of running marathons. Or … she doesn't even know. She's not sure there **is** a comparable scenario. She wonders if the words in his memories are too fast for him to understand, too, or if he can slow them down since they're in his head.

"I know it's hard for you," she says. "But you've only been talking for about seven months." She pauses. Lets him catch up. "You've had to relearn **everything** ," she says. She reaches across the parking brake and touches his shoulder. He shivers. "I don't think it'll always be like this for you. You'll get better at it."

She remembers in the days after he first woke up, when he couldn't speak, and he stared at everything like all of it was new and scary and painful. Except her. He never looked at her that way. She remembers the first time he figured out his facial muscles, and he smiled at her. And the first time he said hello. And the first time he could say her name. And the first time he took a step on his own – she stood on the gym mat in the rehab center and cheered him toward her. He's come so freaking far. Sometimes, she gets stuck in forward thought, focusing on how far he still has to go to be Her Derek. But when she looks back at where he's been .…

The lump in her throat is a softball when she thinks about that. "Derek, I know you think you suck at talking, but .…" She swallows. "I think you're amazing. You're amazing for being alive at all, but what you've managed so far?" She takes a deep, shaky breath. "You're **amazing**."

He doesn't have a response to that, and she hopes she hasn't confused him, not for something that important. Something that he needs so badly to hear. She lets her palm slide down his shoulder, down his bicep, down his forearm, to his hand. She intertwines her fingers with his, and she pulls his hand to her lap. He lets her. She offers him a squeeze. Just a little one to let him know she's there.

What she doesn't expect, though, is him squeezing her hand in return. She risks pulling her eyes from the road for a second. He's looking at her. He's using his left hand. And his grip is strong enough to cut off circulation.

In that moment, something in her world clicks. She has no idea who Derek Shepherd is anymore, but she really wants to know.

* * *

Meredith finds Maggie in the hospital library researching heart valves for … something. Meredith slumps into the seat beside her half-sister and waits for Maggie to mark her place and look up. "Can you take the kids on Saturday?" Meredith says without preface.

Maggie nods. "Sure, what's up?"

The room smells like paper. New paper. Old musty paper. Lots and lots of paper. A doctor Meredith doesn't know shuffles into the orthopedics section and starts to rifle through the available titles.

"I'm going on a date," Meredith whispers. "With Derek."

Maggie smiles. "I think that's a great idea. What are you doing with him?"

Meredith sighs. "Frankly, I have no idea. And I haven't actually asked him if he wants to, yet."

"He'll want to, Mere."

Meredith rests against the table, propping up her head with the heels of her palms, and she sighs. "I hope so. He's … so hard for me to read, sometimes."

"Nothing new on the kissing front?"

"No," Meredith says. "He squeezed my hand yesterday, though."

Maggie nods. "He'll want to go, Mere. He's reaching out."

Meredith snorts. "Literally." And then she looks into space and lets the world lose focus. She sighs. "This isn't where I ever thought I would be. Trying to woo my own husband."

Maggie thinks for a moment. "Maybe, you shouldn't look at it like that."

"How the hell should I be looking at it, then?" Meredith grumbles.

Maggie shrugs. "Not many couples get to have all their first moments a second time. I say hop on the Tilt-a-Whirl and have some fun with it."

* * *

Not everything with pause is perfect right away. On Thursday night, Bailey is overtired. On his way to the couch, Derek has a sluggish steering moment and accidentally kicks one of Bailey's block towers with his right foot. The tower crumbles to the rug in pieces, and Bailey has a monster temper tantrum over the ruins. No amount of saying pause gets him to stop kicking and screaming. Derek gets upset enough to leave the living room and hide in his bedroom where it's quiet. This is Derek's seventh star since the implementation of pause. Meredith's pretty sure he doesn't care about anything in the dollar store goody bag, so she doesn't offer him anything but the peace and quiet he desires. For now.

* * *

"Do you want to do something tomorrow?" Meredith asks on Friday.

The buckets of rain all week have given way to idyllic blue skies and warmth that she hopes will last at least through tomorrow. She's driving Derek home again through a tunnel of lush, vivid greens. She's decided she likes having this time in the car with him. Time to be.

Derek seems … almost bewildered by the question. "Do … something?"

"Yeah," Meredith says. "Is there … something you'd like to do? Just us; no kids."

"What?"

"Something fun," she says. "Like … we could go see a movie."

"Movie?"

"Like TV, but bigger," she says.

Derek says, "I know what movie … is."

"Well, do you want to go to one?" she says. She's not even sure what's showing, but she's willing to give anything a go if it means they'll have something to do.

"No," he says. He makes a face. "It …. I don't .…" He sighs. "Word too fast."

Crap, she thinks. She should have thought of that. She ponders other options. What the hell is there? Mini golf? Bowling? She'd take him fishing, but she imagines he doesn't know how to fish anymore, and she doesn't know the first thing about it, so she wouldn't be able to refresh his memory.

"Is there anything you definitely don't want to do? Other than a movie?"

He thinks for a long moment. "Please, not much talk."

"That's fine. I'll pick something quiet. Any other requests?"

But all he can do is shrug, and she's left pondering options a bit like a drowning person claws at water. He has no hobbies anymore. He has no cultivated tastes. He has no real life experience. All of it has been erased. He's a _tabula rasa_.

Pike Place might be interesting, she thinks. There would be lots of new things for him to see, and they could grab lunch or dinner or both at one of the many restaurants there. But Pike Place is often a crowded clog of people and motion and noise, and she's not sure he would deal well with being dunked into humanity that way when he's been in a state of relative isolation for so long. There has to be something low-key she can do with him. Something she knows he liked before.

Something .… The idea smacks her like she's run into a door.

She tears her eyes from the road long enough to let her spreading smile show him she's had her epiphany. "I think I know the perfect thing," she says.

* * *

As soon as they get home, and Meredith is sure both kids are watching, she pulls out the goody bag and presents it to Derek. Derek takes the plastic bag with a frown. "What is this for?" he says.

Meredith grins. "You earned seven stars yesterday. You get to pick a prize. Those are the rules."

"But … I don't … wa-" he begins, but his voice clips to a halt before he can finish his sentence when she shakes her head at him. She feels silly, in this moment. She should have told him in the car what the point of this was, but it's too late, now. Crap. She looks from him to the bag several times with a pointed gaze. He stares at her for a long moment, and she's almost ready to admit this backfired, but then he reaches into the bag and pulls out a random toy. A plastic slinky. "Thank … you?" he says in a questioning tone, and she can see what he's saying in his half-curious, half-confused expression, even though he's not saying it. _Is that what you wanted me to do?_

Meredith puts her hands on his shoulders and smiles as she turns to face the kids. "Look what Daddy won!" she says.

"Yay, Daddy!" Zola says, clapping.

Bailey adds a happy cheer.

Meredith squeezes Derek's shoulders, a silent thanks, and then she crouches so she's eye level with the kids playing on the rug. "You know," she says in a gentle tone, "when Daddy wins something, that was **seven** opportunities for points you missed. Seven is enough for **you** to win something. This could be **your** slinky. Don't you want to win more fun things? Isn't it **fun** to beat Daddy at games?"

"Oh," Zola says, as if this hadn't occurred to her before. "I like to win."

Meredith looks at Bailey. "There's another car in the bag, you know. You don't want Daddy to win that first, do you?"

Bailey shakes his head.

"What do you say we take **all** the points this time," Meredith says. "Don't let Daddy win a single pause."

Zola eats up the competitive excitement Meredith has injected into her tone like it's delicious pie. "Yeah!" Zola says. "We take all the points!"

" **Awh points**!" Bailey echoes.

Meredith nods now that Zola and Bailey are primed with some competitive spirit, and she stands up from her crouch. "They don't want you to win any more star magnets," Meredith clarifies to Derek, who's looking more than a little mystified by this whole thing. He takes a second to parse her words. She doesn't miss the hope in his eyes when he puts it all together.

He doesn't want himself to win any more star magnets, either.

* * *

Parking in downtown Seattle is a freaking nightmare. An absolute nightmare that she tries to do only when forced at gunpoint. So, she drives Derek to Seattle Grace, she parks in the staff lot, and she walks with him to the front entrance while she calls for a cab.

When the cab driver asks her where they want to go, she says, "Take us to the ferry terminal, please."

* * *

They board the ferry to Bainbridge, and they find a seat on the top deck, but Derek doesn't sit right away. He steps to the railing and looks out over the water. The air is on the cool side of warm. Puffy nimbus clouds scatter across the sky, but the coverage is sparse enough that the sun is almost punishing in its brilliance. Light makes the water sparkle like someone scattered diamonds on the surface. Tiny waves slosh and slap at the side of the boat. He clutches the railing.

"Do you remember this?" Meredith says. "The ferryboats?"

He's silent for a long time. His gaze breaks from the horizon, and he looks down at the boat's railing. He runs the fingers of his weak hand along the surface, pausing when he hits a bump in the paint like he's reading braille. He grasps the cold metal, and then he flattens his fingers and grips it again like he's practicing.

She thinks he's going to say no, he doesn't remember, but he doesn't say no. He doesn't say yes, either, which makes her think he's not sure. She leans against him, wrapping her arm low around his waist, and she rests against his shoulder. His gray Bowdoin t-shirt is soft, and she sighs as her cheek presses against the sleeve. If he's not sure, maybe a prompt will help him, she thinks.

"We used to do this for fun, sometimes," she says. "We'd ride out to Bainbridge and walk through the park to the pub in the Harbor Marina." They had a spot in the park on a bench where they liked to sit. Sometimes, they'd watch the water while they drank champagne or wine or whatever. Sometimes they'd kiss. Sometimes they'd do more than kiss, pushing it nearly to public indecency. A smile stretches across her face at the memories. So many good ones. So many that she wishes he still had. "I remember one time, all we did for five hours was ride the ferry back and forth between Bainbridge and Seattle."

The ferry begins to move, and Derek glances over the railing, down at the churning, frothing water. The breeze ruffles his hair, and as the boat gains velocity, a windswept blush creeps across his skin. He keeps gripping the railing and letting it go with his right hand, and she's not sure he knows he's doing it.

"What did we did?" he says.

"When we were riding back and forth?"

He nods. "Yes."

"Played cards. Talked. Whatever. That was back before we adopted Zola, and we had a little more time to kill. Not much, but a little."

"We worked much," he says, and she frowns.

She's not sure if he's asking or observing. "Yes, we worked a lot."

He swallows and says nothing.

She looks up at him. "What are you thinking?" she says.

His mouth opens and closes, and then he looks away like he's embarrassed. He watches the horizon. Little sailboats dot the distant surface of the water – white specks against endless blue water. She thinks, maybe, he does remember something. He just doesn't know how in the hell to describe it.

She squeezes his shoulder. "Tell me the parts you have words for," she prods.

The silence stretches, but he's wearing his looking-for-words expression, and she waits while he figures out the mess in his head. "I have thing for … ferry … boats," he says, hovering on the f in for and the f in ferry like he's expending gargantuan effort to spit words out, and they're trying their best to stay unspoken.

She blinks. "Really?" she says, syllables catching in her throat. She scrunches her fingers against his t-shirt. "You remember that?"

He looks at her, and his lip twitches like he might be thinking about smiling, but isn't quite there yet. "You … didn't liked me .…" he says in an amused tone that reminds her of before, after she fled the elevator. _We'll talk later?_

She can't help but laugh. "Well, you were being kind of a jerk about it, you know," she says. "I kept saying no, and you kept saying yes, yes, yes." He looks at her with a mystified expression that tells her she's lost him, and she shakes her head and sighs against him. "Never mind," she says.

"When was … this remember?" he says, and then he closes his eyes, takes a breath, and corrects himself to say, "Memory."

"Like a couple days after we met," she says. "Maybe, a week? I can't remember exactly."

He shifts from foot to foot and pulls away from the railing. He hobbles to a bench to get weight off his leg, and she sinks into the space next to him. He hooks his cane over his right forearm. "Tell … how we meeted." He makes a face and mouths the word meeted. "Meet. Meeted?"

"Met is past tense," she says.

He thinks for a moment, mouthing the words, and then he says in halting syllables, "How did … we met?" He makes a face like he knows what he's said isn't quite right. He looks at her with a question in his gaze. _What did I do wrong?_

"You either want to say, 'How did we meet?'" she says, emphasizing each individual syllable, "or, 'Tell me how we met.'"

"How did we met?" he says again. He makes a face and tries again. "How did we met?" A frustrated noise coils in his throat. His lower lip quivers. He tries one more time. "How did we met?"

She hurts for him when they run into problems like this. Sometimes, even when he's thinking the right thing, what ends up coming out of his mouth is wrong, no matter how hard he tries. This doesn't reflect his overall intelligence, much like the volume of a broken bullhorn doesn't reflect the gusto of the person shouting behind it. The part that makes her hurt for him, though, is that he can hear himself and understand it's wrong. He knows he's butchering it. He just … can't not.

She gives it one last go, repeating the words for him with deliberate pauses between each one. "How. Did. We. Meet?"

He thinks for a long, long moment. He repeats, every syllable a hesitant, halting war with an ocean of silence surrounding it, "How … … did … … we … … meet?"

She smiles and gives him a thumbs up, and he deflates like he just put down a five-hundred pound weight. "We met at a bar," she says. "You used the crappiest pickup lines I've ever heard."

"Pickup lines?" he parrots.

"Things you say to get sex from someone," she says.

"I wanted sex," he says. Sort of a question. Sort of … not.

"Yes," Meredith says with a snort. "And, holy crap, did you get it. I think .…" She thinks for a moment. "Hmm, four times?"

He licks his lips. "I wish I … can remember."

She stares at him for a moment, trying to figure him out. He's telling her he wants to remember a night of wild, drunken debauchery with her. But why would he want to remember that if he's not thinking about maybe doing it with her again sometime? Which means he **is** thinking about maybe doing it with her again sometime, right? Except he hasn't kissed her in five weeks, and he's like the anti-Derek with how undemonstrative he is, and, crap, she wishes he wasn't so hard to read, now. She wishes she had some sort of clear trajectory to follow.

She has very little experience with this. Dating. The only other guy she ever dated was Finn. The rest of the men in her life? All a revolving door of one-night stands that scratched her miscellaneous itches.

She sighs as they watch the scenery go by. The ferry has plodded about halfway across the Sound, and the shoreline of Bainbridge is a green strip to the west that's getting larger. She's not looking at him when he does it, she's looking at their destination, and she's not sure what precedes the motion, but he wraps his arm over her shoulder. She's so surprised that he's breached her personal space that she jumps like a rabbit, and he freezes, mid-motion.

He swallows, and he looks at the horizon instead of at her. "Sorry," he says. He tries to pull his arm away from her.

"No," she says, the word vehement, and she grabs his hand, preventing him from retreating. "No, don't say that." She curls up against him, pressing her cheek to his chest. She clutches his hand against her body, afraid he'll try to pull away if she lets him go, and she doesn't ever want to let him go. "I was just surprised."

"You like this?" he says.

Her eyes are watering. "I love it," she says. She tests things, lets her grip relax. His arm and hand stay where they are, wrapped over her. "I've missed it so much."

"Okay," he says. His hand closes around her arm, and he rubs her shoulder to elbow like she does with him. He's copying. Learning. Like a student or something.

She wonders if, maybe, this whole freaking thing – all of her frustration over their relationship since Derek was released from rehab – has been the result of him not knowing what the hell to do with her. With any woman. Worse, he's been living in an environment that for days had him so stressed his body literally broke on him. Why would he want to add more stress to an already heaping portion by trying to figure out how to romance someone? She's used to thinking of him as full of prowess in this area, and it's kind of a revelatory moment when she realizes she's essentially dealing with a virgin. This should have occurred to her before, when he kissed her, because he was clumsy about it and didn't do any of her favorite things.

 _Not many couples get to have all their first moments a second time_ , Maggie said.

She feels like such an idiot for not figuring this out sooner that she laughs aloud, and he looks at her with a perplexed expression. "It's nothing," she says, and she gives him a grin that's full of mirth, because she is. She's a glass spilling over with happiness, because she gets it, now. She gets **him**. "It's nothing. I'm just … happy."

His cheeks are windburned, and the breeze has mussed up his hair. The almost-maybe-smile he's been toying with since they boarded the ferry comes alive on his face, and his lips curve upward. His eyes are bright and blue in the sunshine, and the skin around them crinkles as his pleasure in the moment spreads. He's grinning with his whole freaking face. It's the first real smile she's seen on him in weeks, and he looks so handsome it makes her insides tighten with a familiar wanting.

"Me, too," he says in a throaty, soft voice, and she sighs against him as they watch the scenery drift by on the water.

So, Derek Shepherd still has a thing for ferryboats, she thinks. She's glad this isn't something that he's lost.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes: PLEASE READ THIS NOTE **IMPORTANT**  
**

Dear Readers,

First and foremost, I'd like to thank everybody for all the lovely feedback I've received on this story so far. Seriously, thank you for taking the time to drop me a note. They always make my day!

That being said, lately, many readers have taken to posting feedback for me on Twitter. That's perfectly fine – I love your comments in any forum or format – but I also want the ability to re-read them in the future, maybe even years down the line. Twitter makes that difficult because of its ephemeral nature and because even favorited tweets vanish if the author's account is deactivated. I've lost **lots** of comments on AATW over the years, and I don't want that to happen with Reclaim.

Because of this, I intend to re-post comments from Twitter either here on FFnet or on Ao3 (I haven't decided which yet) to ensure that they are consolidated and preserved permanently. I will attribute the comments to the Twitter handle from which they originated, and I will never ever re-post anything that was sent to me privately from a locked account or in a direct message. If you have an issue with me re-posting a public comment you've made on Twitter **please** let me know by next Friday, when I post Ch 9, and I won't include the comment in question. If you prefer that I don't re-post any comments you make on Twitter, please let me know that as well, and I promise to abide by your wishes. And if you're okay with me re-posting your comments but don't want your Twitter handle used, let me know that and I'll make them anonymous.

Please, don't get me wrong. I love your feedback. I love it in any medium you choose to write it in. If Twitter is your preferred medium for posting feedback for me, by all means, do what you prefer - I just love to hear from you! Me re-posting comments is solely for my own personal edification in the future, based on 20/20 hindsight with experience from losing so much irreplaceable AATW feedback.

I hope everybody understands! And thanks again!

* * *

 **Week six.**

Derek sleeps until noon on Sunday, and more than once, Meredith has to pull an impatient Zola away from his bedroom door. Just after she's served the kids some macaroni and cheese mixed with hotdogs, though, he emerges from his bedroom, bleary-eyed and stubbly and out of sorts. His hair sticks up, and his eyes are glassy, and when she says, "Good morning," to him with a smile, all he does is squint at her like she's said something that's gibberish to him.

Zola adds between noisy, smacking bites, "It's not morning, Mommy."

"I know that," Meredith replies.

"They why are you saying good morning?"

Meredith shakes her head. "Because it's … how that phrase is used."

"Why?" Zola says.

"Well, in this case, morning means the beginning of the day, and since Daddy just woke up, it's the beginning of the day for him."

Zola frowns, but she doesn't spiral into a why, why, why fest, at least.

"Hi, Dada!" Bailey says as Derek ambles closer, hobbling despite his cane, and Derek follows the noise with his gaze. There's only vague comprehension loitering in his eyes, but he gives a small smile and a wave with his free hand. Bailey seems to find this level of acknowledgment acceptable and returns to fishing for hot dog pieces in his sea of drippy macaroni.

Derek slumps into a chair at the dining room table with them, wordless. He props up his head by jamming his elbows into the table and resting his chin against the heels of his palms. He doesn't look like he wants to be awake right now. He slept late yesterday, too. Maybe, he's recouping some energy after being stressed for so long by the kids. She's not sure he's had much of an opportunity for stress recovery since his migraine. Pause has made things better, but it's not a perfect system, yet. The kids are still adjusting to it, still learning, and Derek doesn't always remember to use it.

"You don't have to be up," Meredith says. At first, he doesn't even seem to recognize he's been spoken to. "Derek," she repeats, and his empty gaze drifts to her. "Derek, you don't have to be awake for anything. You can go back to bed."

He shrugs. His mouth opens and closes. He thinks. "I … want … alone," he manages in halting syllables. He winces. "Not. Not … alone."

Meredith grins. He's seeking them out. He wants company. He wants **their** company. His family.

"Do you want some coffee?" Meredith says. "I can make you some coffee."

His nose crinkles like he's sniffed something awful. "I … don't like."

She frowns. He's been sleeping late enough since she brought him home that he's missed the coffee boat every morning, and she's never had any other occasion to offer him any before – he's never once looked this dead on his feet. She's never seen evidence that he's tried making it on his own, either. "When did you try coffee?" she says.

He pulls his fingers through his hair and rubs his eyes. "Rehab," he says.

"Oh," she says, trying hard not to marvel over a Derek who doesn't like coffee. He was never a coffee addict. Not like her. But he valued his caffeine infusions before early morning surgeries like they were liquid gold. "What don't you like about it?"

He thinks for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, mouth moving while he churns over what to say. He seems to be waking up a little with conversation, at least. He tries to say something. Several times. The bare-but-shaped exhalation of air he makes again and again sounds like he's trying to engage his vocal cords, but something in the process between thought and action isn't working. He shakes his head. "I can't say … word," he says. Another shaped exhalation. He closes his eyes and tries one last time, but gives up when nothing comes out. He frowns at her, staring like he wishes he could beam the contents of his brain into hers.

"Is it too bitter?" Meredith says. When he gets stuck like this, he can recognize what he's trying to say when he hears it. He just can't say it.

"What … is bitter?"

"Not sweet," she says.

"Oh," he says. "I don't like … bitter. Coffee … bad."

"Is bitter what you were trying to say?" Meredith says.

He shakes his head. He puts his fingers to his lips like he's pointing. "I … can't. Can't say."

She frowns, churning through all the options. Lips. Teeth. Mouth. Tongue. But none of that has anything to do with coffee. Bitter isn't the word he wanted, but it seems to have satisfied his desire to communicate what he dislikes.

"Taste?" she hazards.

"Yes," he says. He nods. "Yes, this." He licks his lips. "Coffee … make headache also."

Crap, she forgot about that. That caffeine gives him headaches. She doesn't have time to comment, though, because Zola finishes her macaroni and cheese, and she sets her spoon down with a clink. She slides off her chair and walks to Meredith's chair. She gestures for Meredith to lean closer.

Meredith complies. "Mommy, can I give Daddy my card, now?" Zola whispers in Meredith's ear. Zola's excitement is a palpable, thick, writhing thing. Meredith thinks if she keeps holding Zola back, her daughter might burst.

Meredith glances at Bailey. He's done, too. His spoon is an airplane at this point, and she watches as it shuttles down the "runway" on his tray table and takes off into the air, still clutched in his tiny hand.

She grins at Zola. "Why don't you grab your brother's, too?" she whispers back at her daughter.

"Okay, Mommy," Zola says at a normal volume and dashes off to her room.

Derek's staring at Meredith with a frown. "You … don't want me … hear?" he says in halting words.

"Of course, I want you here," she says, frowning. "Why wouldn't I want you here?"

He thinks for a long moment, frown deepening. She waits. "I didn't … heared," he says. "What … Zo say?"

"Oh!" Meredith says, comprehension dawning. She shakes her head. "Oh, no. I thought you meant here as in this location, not hear as what you do with your ears." She taps her ear for emphasis. A tiny noise catches in his throat. The confusion in his eyes makes her ache. She gives him a reassuring smile. "You'll see what it's about in a second," Meredith says. She winks. "It's a surprise."

His lips move. He takes a while to eject, "Surprise … is … n-not expect?"

"That's right," she says. His frown doesn't melt away, though, only deepens even further. "This is a good surprise. I promise."

Zola trots back into the room with an uneven pile of construction paper clutched in her arms. She grins as she approaches. Derek watches her, eyes narrowing. She presents her pile to Derek, which he seems to take on reflex.

"Happy Dad Day!" Zola pronounces.

"Happy, happy," Bailey chirps, grinning. He bangs his spoon on his highchair's tray for emphasis.

Derek glances at the papers in his hands, a flummoxed look on his face. The kids both made him cards, covered with glitter and crayon scratch and young, nonsensical artistry. They also made him a stack of drawings about ten sheets of paper thick.

He sets the pile on the dining room table and picks up the first thing. It's the folding card Zola made for him out of purple construction paper. A thick HAPPY FATHER'S DAY pronouncement in blue block letters covers the front page. Meredith drew the outline for the letters. Zola filled them in. Inside the card, Zola wrote her own name in slipshod, unskilled print, followed by xoxoxo at Meredith's recommendation. Zola also glued on a bunch of pink and red hearts she cut out of other paper, and she colored in a few messy rainbows, and a few ponies with wild, scratchy manes. Glitter caps the ensemble, making the rainbows sparkle.

Derek glances at the card, and then at Zola, and then back to the card. "You … maked this … for … me?" he says, stumbling. A lump forms in Meredith's throat at the thick emotion she can hear in his voice. Last Father's Day, he wasn't conscious, hadn't been for a month-and-a-half, and she never expected to hear his voice again, let alone see him interacting with his kids.

"Yes, it's Dad Day!" Zola says. She squirms into his lap, and she gives him a kiss. "I'm glad you're not in re-have anymore."

His eyes are wet as he fingers the card, tracing all the pictures with his index and middle fingers. "What does it say?" he says.

"It says Happy Father's Day on the front," Meredith chimes in. "And Zola on the inside with an xoxoxo. That means hugs and kisses." Zola demonstrates the hug and kiss part, and the skin around his eyes crinkles as a warm smile overtakes his surprise.

"I get day?" he says.

She wipes the wet burn of tears out of her eyes and nods. "Yes. All dads everywhere get a day."

"Do you get … day?" he says.

She nods. "Moms get a day, too."

"When?"

"In May," she says, trying to keep herself from warbling as she speaks.

Mother's Day, a year ago, is a painful blur. The holiday occurred mere days after he crashed, only a little while after Dr. Weller told her to give Derek some time to wake up, and the only reason she remembered the holiday at all at the time was because Zola brought her a card she made with Carolyn's help. Last Mother's Day, though – the one six-ish weeks ago – her slightly belated gift more than made up for the previous year: Derek coming home.

"About a week before I brought you home," she clarifies.

He nods, and she doesn't miss the calculating look in Derek's eyes. Like he's filing away that information for next year. She can't help but smile as she realizes there's a real potential to be on the receiving end of another one of his cheesy, romantic schemes. Assuming, that is, that he's still a romantic. And a cheesy one, at that. She's not sure.

Derek's attention shifts back to his bounty, and he smiles at the card. And he smiles at Zola. And at Meredith. And Bailey, too. "Thank you." He sets down Zola's card on the table with care, like he thinks he's been trusted to care for the fragile Mona Lisa or something.

He looks at Bailey's card next. The paper of Bailey's card is green. Meredith gave him the same HAPPY FATHER'S DAY block letters to color in, but they aren't visible, because he scribbled all over it. Bailey can't write his name yet, so she gave him a pencil outline on the inside of the card to trace for that as well. That's also covered in scribble. The paper looks like a tornado vortex of swirls and squiggles.

"That one says Happy Father's Day in there somewhere, too," Meredith says. "It's from Bailey."

"I make that one!" Bailey says. "It's a train!"

Derek looks at the abstract, dark cloud of mixed colors. "I see!" Derek says, grinning. "This is … a … good draw," he praises, and the wacky thing is that he's not lying. Meredith's seen pre-accident Derek do the nod-and-smile-oh-that's-great misdirect on the kids any number of times when they produced something that only made sense in their imaginations, but this isn't a misdirect. He thinks the scribble cloud is amazing. He stares at it for a long moment, and Meredith's left wondering what he sees. What he's thinking. Imagining. "Thank you," he repeats in a soft, reverent tone, and he proceeds to look through all the drawings he's been given.

Meredith rests her chin on her hands, smiling as she watches him have a halting conversation with Zola and Bailey about their artwork. The warm look of pleasure on his face is a drug to her. He's always loved his kids. Always. She can still remember his bright, happy expression two years ago when Zola gave him the card Meredith helped her make. But, post-accident, he's more than happy and bright. He's touched to the marrow of his bones. Touched that someone would declare this day a holiday just for him. Touched that someone would make something for him.

Touched by the simple act of his family saying, "Hey, we were thinking of you today, Dad!"

She's so glad he's alive to experience this with them, the intensity of her feelings make her chest tight and painful. For a moment, she has trouble breathing. She swallows because her throat hurts. Her vision blurs all over again, and she has to wipe her eyes with her fingers. Has to blink to bring things back into focus. And she wants them to be in focus. She wants to see this.

Derek. Alive. Sitting across the table from her. Enjoying all the amateur artwork with their bubbly, babble-y children.

After a few moments, he notices her watching him, and though he keeps talking to the kids, he stares back at her, not them, with a twinkling gaze. The look he gives her makes her heart squeeze, because she sees affection there. Warm, direct, undisguised, like sunlight in the summer. He's not looking at this random person who brought him home and gave him shelter and forced him to live with a pair of stressful kids who give him migraines, but at his companion.

He likes her. She's sure of it, now. He may not know what the hell to do about it, but he does.

Hope burns.

* * *

Callie corners Meredith in the scrub room after Meredith finishes with a bowel resection. Meredith hasn't even gotten her mask or cap off, yet, before Callie sidles beside her, demanding conversation.

"Well?" Callie says. "How did it go?"

Meredith blinks. She peers through the window back into the OR, where her patient, Mrs. Darcy, lies on the table, still out cold from the anesthetic. The scrub nurses are prepping the poor woman to go back to the recovery room, where she'll face a long hospital stay and a lot of pain, but Meredith's done what she could. Why the hell would Callie care about a bowel resection?

"Um, fine …," Meredith says. "No complications or anything. Why?"

Callie follows Meredith's gaze to the OR and waves her hand dismissively. "Pfft, not that," Callie says. "The date with Derek! Was there kissing?"

"The .…" Meredith shakes her head. "How did you hear about that?" Callie pantomimes a zipper closing over her mouth, but Meredith rolls her eyes. It's obvious that Maggie gabbed. Maggie hates keeping secrets and always buckles under intense interrogation. "I swear, I'm not telling Maggie anything anymore." She sighs, rips off her surgical mask and tosses it into the biohazard bin, and then shoves her hands into the sink to begin the arduous process of scrubbing out of surgery.

"It wasn't Maggie," Callie says. "I swear it wasn't. Please, tell me how it went?"

Meredith presses her lips into a flat line. If it wasn't Maggie, that means the whole freaking Seattle Grace gossip network must have this story, and … she doesn't know if she can deal with that. The stupid, ignorant comments. She's run into them too often over the past year. Idiots expressing sympathy over Meredith being stuck with damaged goods. Idiots speculating about her sex life. Idiots who can only think of Derek as a rockstar with a tragic ending.

She remembers months ago. She walked past an open door and overheard two interns talking while they fixed an intravenous line. They stood over a drooling, mute TBI patient who couldn't hold his bladder, a man who'd been shot in the head, and who was much worse off than Derek. _Can you imagine being married to this? I don't know how she does it._

 _I wonder if she changes his diapers._

Meredith marched into the room, grabbed their jackets, dragged them outside the room, and snapped, _You don't talk like that in front of a patient. Not ever. Even if you think he can't understand you._

"Why do you want to know?" Meredith says before she can fall headlong into that awful memory. She sounds prickly, even to her own ears, but she's happy. She's been so happy all weekend, and she doesn't need gossip vultures ripping the fun out of her personal life like the happiness is rotting guts. She rubs the soap into her skin until it hurts.

"Derek's my friend. You're my friend." Callie folds her arms. "Are people being jackasses again?"

"No," Meredith says. "But I imagine it's only a matter of time, if you're hearing about this crap from not-Maggie."

Callie's expression floods with sympathetic understanding. She brushes her curly black hair out of her face. "Nobody's gossiping," Callie says. "My intern was in the library when you guys were chatting. I threatened him on pain of death not to tell anybody else."

"Oh," Meredith says. She finishes washing her hands and dries off with a paper towel. She pulls off her scrub cap. She looks at Callie, who's smiling, and excited, and .… Meredith bites her lip. "It was nice."

"Nice?" Callie says. "Just nice? You can't use an adjective like nice to describe a date with Derek Shepherd. Details, girl! Spill!"

"We rode the ferry out to Bainbridge," Meredith says. "Walked in the park, watched the water."

"And?" Callie prods.

"No kissing," Meredith says, "but … I think I figured out why, and … I'm okay. I'm okay with that."

Callie raises her eyebrows. "Well, why?"

A smile stretches across Meredith's face. It feels nice. Nice to gush at someone, she realizes. Nice to gush at someone who won't judge or take sides. Someone who's a real friend to both of them, not just her, not just him. Amelia has always been Team Derek with varying degrees of willingness. Maggie and Alex are Team Meredith. But Callie? She's always been Team MerDer. Always. And, hell, it's nice to have something to gush about at **all**. So many of her conversations with friends lately have involved frustrations. Worries. Hopes getting smashed.

Meredith leans her hip against the sink. "Because I think he likes me; he just has no idea what to do about it. I mean he's basically a virgin when you think about it."

Callie smiles. "Really?" she says, her voice full of emotion. Her eyes water. She rubs them with her hands, blinking. Her mascara streaks a little. "Okay, just so you know, I'm going to hug you, now."

Meredith snorts. "Okay," she says.

* * *

She doesn't mean to say it. I love you. She's been biting her tongue for weeks, now, every time she thinks it, but she can't freaking help it this time, because her husband is an amazing person, and she does. She loves him.

When she gets home after a long shift on Tuesday, both kids are in bed. The house is warm and full of the scent of … something cooking. Or cooked recently. She's not sure what. The nanny yawns as she says goodnight and leaves. Meredith sees Derek sitting out on the deck in the scoop chair, his head tipped back as he stargazes. Her stomach growls before she can make a move to join him, and she detours into the kitchen area.

There's a pot in the oven being kept warm. Foil covers the top of the pot, so she can't see what's in it. When she opens the oven door, a blast of warm air hits her face, and she basks in that for a moment before pulling out whatever the nanny made for dinner. She sets the pot on the countertop and removes the foil to peer inside. She sees noodles. And cheese. She thinks the dish might be some offshoot of macaroni and cheese, but when she serves herself some, she discovers tuna mixed in with the noodles. Tuna and potato chips. She takes a bite and sighs as it melts on her tongue, and she can't stop a pleased, "Mmm," from tumbling from her lips.

She's never seen the nanny make something like this before. Though Meredith has never been a health freak and is happy to feed her children junk on the weekends, simply because she can't cook, and junk is all she can make, Melody tends to stick to healthy foods for the kids. Lots of vegetables, lean meats, and very little dairy except for milk, which she makes them drink at every meal.

Meredith smiles as she carries her plate out onto the deck to sit with Derek while she eats. She's had a long freaking day. She lost two patients in back-to-back surgeries, both patients she got to know well before they died, and she's having a hard time compartmentalizing her feelings. Comfort food like this is what she needs.

Derek smiles at her as she plops into the chair beside him. He doesn't say hello, but his expression says it for him – the way he seems to lift when he notices her entering his orbit says it. The way his whole demeanor changes from a slump into rapt interest says it.

"Hey," she says. "How was your day?"

He shifts in the scoop chair so he's on his side, looking at her and not the sky. His eyelids drift to half-mast, and he watches her through his eyelashes. He seems content to stare, and she bites her lip, a little self-conscious, but she smiles back at him despite the blush she can feel creeping across her skin. He gifts her with a soft, purring, "Hmm," that rumbles in the back of his throat, but he doesn't elaborate with any words.

She remembers that sound. Hmm. She can't remember the last time she heard it from him. She thinks it might have been the morning before his accident. They made love in the predawn hours – the very last time they made love.

Since the crash, he hasn't said hmm, or uh, or um, or ah, except in unusual circumstances. He hasn't had a "silence filler." Just silence.

The idea that he's healed enough for his brain to start filling the gaps when he's not talking .… She loves that. Because his soft utterances always said so many different things in so many different ways, and she thinks this might help her read him better. Those little monosyllabic cues. Hello. Goodbye. I'm listening. I know you're talking, but I'm not listening. I'm tired. I just woke up. I'm trying to sleep. I'm happy. I'm hurting. I want. I like. I hate. Please. Thank you. You're welcome. I love you.

In this case, she thinks the hmm is some combination of possibilities that includes I'm tired, lent weight by the fact that he hasn't spoken to her, yet, not even to say hello, and she makes a mental note to take it easy with him. Nighttime is his worst time for words, because his brain gets tired, and it stops working as well. Still, to get to this point, that means he was mentally active all day, and this wasn't a rehab day where activity was forced on him. Which means, maybe, he's snapping out of his melancholy, and playing with the kids more. Doing things more. She wishes she'd thought to ask Melody for details of the day.

Opting not to exacerbate his flagging energy with conversation, Meredith leans back in her chair, sighs, and takes another bite of dinner. The moon is new, and the night is so dark and clear that the sky looks like shattered glass. She can see the white band of the Milky Way, and now that her eyes have adjusted, when she squints, she can even see satellites moving across the black dome overhead. They're faint moving dots that are hard to pick out without focusing hard, but still, seeing satellites with the naked eye is mind-boggling to her.

She loves this place. Their house. On the cliff. In the quiet. In the nowhere. She takes another bite, chewing as she stares.

"Like …," Derek says, struggling, "this?"

At first she thinks he's talking about the view, but when she drops her gaze to peer at him, she sees him looking pointedly at her plate. She chews, and she swallows, and she smiles. "Yes. Though, to be honest, I didn't think Melody knew what potato chips were, let alone used them in cooking."

Derek stares at her for a long moment, and she thinks she's lost him with her run-on sentence, but before she can think of how to state what she said in smaller pieces, his mouth opens and closes, and she stops to let him work on that. To think on that.

"I … make … this," he says after a moment, and she blinks.

She looks down at her plate. And then back to him. "Seriously?"

"Yes," he says. "Zola … question." A wince. "A-ask."

"You mean you made it **before** , too?" Meredith says.

"It … not hard … direction." A frustrated noise fills his throat. "Recipe."

Screw that, though. Not a hard recipe. Whatever. He's mixed several different ingredients together and baked it, and that's a far cry from how he was when he first came home, unable to even use a microwave. She knows he's been getting better in the kitchen – she's been showing him how to make everything she can prepare, not that she can prepare much – but she had no idea he's gotten this much better. She thinks to the last time she saw him make something. A sandwich on Sunday.

"Melody help. Book," he elaborates. He winces, and he corrects himself. "Cookbook. Help read."

She's dumbfounded. A lump forms in her throat. "Derek, that's really great," she says, voice rough. "That's great that you've been doing that." She thinks back on the last few weeks, to another night she got home too late to make anything. "Did you make that rice and chicken thing last week, too?"

A long pause. "Yes."

He's been feeding her. Their children. And she didn't even know it. He's gotten **so** much better. She blinks as the feeling swells in her chest. It's big and overwhelming like a tidal wave, and it bowls her over until that singular feeling is all she can think about.

"I love you," she says. "Derek, I really do."

He meets her eyes, but he doesn't reply to that except with a tiny twitch of his lips, and then she realizes what she's said to him. Damn it. Damn it, why is it so hard for her to back off and let him have his space? Why does she freaking **need** him so much lately?

He looks back at the sky. He swallows. "You … not … say that." Another wince. "Say that." Another frustrated noise. He thinks for a long moment. "Say that. In … while. A. A. A while."

She blinks. And she looks at him. He didn't start out great with the whole talking thing tonight, and he's getting more frustrated as this conversation stretches. She wants to tell him to sleep, but .… Some inkling tells her she might miss something important if she pushes him away right now.

His face is pale in the darkness, and his eyes glisten as the starlight reflects off his pupils. She's not sure how to read his tone. Or his body language. But she wonders .…

"You like it when I say that?" she says.

His expression is unreadable. "Don't … mind."

A lump fills her throat. "Really? I thought .… I thought it might be scaring you."

"No," he says.

"You seemed so unhappy when I said it last time," she says, thinking of the way he cringed under the covers on that first day.

His eyes close, and he takes a slow breath. He rubs his temples with his index and middle fingers. "This … hard." He makes a frustrated noise. "Is … h-hard."

"I don't want to make it harder."

He swallows. "I have … so much. I don't … know … word." He drops his hands. His lower lip quivers as he stares back at her. "I wish … know. Can. Can say." He shakes his head. "Tell. Tell. T-Tell you." And that kills her. The fact that he wants to talk to her, but he can't, and he's struggling so hard he's backsliding toward gibberish.

"May I sit with you?" she says.

He nods. She puts her plate down on the side table. She shifts out of her seat and slides in next to him, into the scoop chair. He puts his arm over her shoulder, wrapping around her how she's showed him she likes. She snuggles close, and she presses her ear to his shirt over his heart. "It's okay," she says. "I'm here. You don't have to tell me anything right now."

They sit and watch the stars together.

* * *

Derek's tired after rehab, and he's not being chatty. Meredith doesn't mind the lack of conversation in the car on the way home, but she's starting to mind the silence. She's not sure why. Just one of those days.

"Do you know what kind of music you like, now?" she says as the highway churns past.

He stares at her. "No."

She gives him a grin. "Wanna find out?"

"… Okay," he says.

He wouldn't listen to anything in rehab, so she prefaces turning on the radio with, "If the noise bothers you, just say so. I'll turn it off." When she sees him nod out of the corner of her eye, she turns on the radio and shifts the input to her iPod. She picks an album by Lamb to start with and leaves it on shuffle. She's careful to set the volume at a reasonable level that's easy to chat over without needing to raise voices.

The minutes pass. They listen to three songs.

"What did I liked … before?" he says.

"Not this," she says. "I don't have what you liked."

"Oh," he says.

"I can bring your music on Friday if you want," she offers.

"Yes," he says, and she smiles.

"Do you like this?"

He frowns, and he thinks. He listens. Something makes him twitch a little. Like … discomfort? But the expression is gone from his face as fast as it arrived, and he doesn't say anything about it, so she lets go of her concern. "I … don't … dislike," he says.

"Well," she says, "that's a start, I suppose."

So, he doesn't mind music after all. She wonders why he was so vehement against listening to it in rehab, but she's not sure how to ask him. A new song starts to play, and Derek shifts in his seat. He rests his head against the window, and his eyes shut while he listens. Or relaxes. Or both.

Either way, she's found something else for them to do together. There's so much music in the world, so many different kinds. This will take a while, figuring out what he likes, but she finds she doesn't mind. Even if it means listening to the Clash.

* * *

"Pause," Derek says, clutching his temples.

Bailey turns to Meredith. "Mommy, wanna see my snowfake?" he says, pushing the paper cutout project he made in Gymboree at her instead of at Derek. The snowflake is white and covered with glitter, pieces of which drift down to the sofa and the carpet whenever Bailey jiggles the thing. "Medody cut it, but I draw."

"Wow," Meredith says. She's taken to recording earned pause stars in a little pocket-sized notebook she carries with her, and she shows Bailey she's making a mark for him on the page. At the end of the night before bedtime, she adds any notebook points earned throughout the day to the magnet board. Once she's recorded Bailey's new star, she takes his cutout to look at it. "That's really pretty. Definitely fridge material. Did you do it to help winter get here faster?"

"No," he says. "I do it cause dey said to."

Meredith resists the urge to laugh. She smiles instead. "What else did you do today?"

Bailey launches into an enthusiastic narrative. Meanwhile, Derek climbs out of his mental traffic jam, unhindered.

* * *

Meredith's shift starts at lunchtime on Thursday, but she forgets to tell the nanny, who arrives in the morning. Luckily, Melody accepts the scheduling snafu with nothing more than mild irritation, and she has no problem staying later than usual, particularly in light of the fact that Meredith offers to pay her triple her normal rate as an apology for the mistake. Even better, Meredith can take advantage of this situation – having another adult around to watch the kids – and she goes for a walk around the lake with Derek. It's a good opportunity to get him out of the house again, and a good opportunity for a second "date."

"Do you remember this?" Meredith says as they find the dock at the edge of the water.

The lake isn't a terribly large one. Perhaps two miles in circumference. A forty minute walk is enough to circle the entire thing at a normal pace, but with Derek and his weak leg, it took them about an hour to make their way around. The weather is heating up as the sun creeps higher in the sky. Frogs chirrup-chirrup-chirrup, but the sound almost gets lost in the chorus of birdsongs. The water is choppy and gray-green, beaten into sloshing, opaque waves by the breeze. A big, gray bird glides over the surface to settle in the reeds on the opposite side of the water.

Derek looks around at their surroundings, at the weather-beaten dock with chipping green paint. He sees the old recliner lawn chair that used to be the color of a blood orange, but has since faded in the punishing sun. The chair hasn't been used in over a year, and it's covered in pollen and leaf bits and bird droppings and refuse, but a smile stretches across Derek's lips, anyway.

"I do remember," he says. He nods. "Yes. What is …?"

"What's what?" she says.

"I can … see it," he says, words halting. "But I don't .… I don't .…"

"Tell me about the parts you have words for," she says. "Maybe, we can figure it out."

"I sit." He sighs and corrects himself. "I sitted. I had … a drink. It was … brown."

"The drink was brown?" Meredith says.

"No, the … cup." He shakes his head. "No. Not … not a cup. I don't .…"

"Was it long and thin? Kind of like this?" She draws the shape in the air.

"Yes," he says.

"I think the drink was beer," Meredith says. "And the container is called a bottle."

"Beer," he says, frowning. The word sounds foreign on his tongue, and she always finds herself surprised by this. By the odd gaps he has, sometimes, in his knowledge base, but when she thinks about it, why would he know what beer is? It's not like rehab centers have liquor licenses, and Derek hasn't been home in so long, she's stopped adding it to the grocery cart on reflex. She makes a mental note to buy some on the next grocery trip, and then they can figure out if he still likes it.

"It really sounds like it," Meredith says. "Beer in a bottle. You liked to drink that when you were fishing."

Whatever she's said disturbs him, and his frown deepens. He looks out at the lake. The water sloshes under the dock struts. His lip twitches. "But .…"

She squeezes his shoulder, trying to encourage him. "It's okay. What's wrong?"

"It's not .…" He looks at her, and he does his looking-for-a-word fumbling. She waits patiently for his brain to catch up with his mouth. "It's not the card game."

"Card game?"

"Go Fish."

"Oh!" she says as comprehension floods her. "No, you have it right. But the card game is named after the real activity." He doesn't seem to get it, and she struggles to come up with an example he's encountered before. "Kind of like … Zola's toy ponies. They're not real ponies. Go Fish isn't real fishing."

"Oh," he says.

"Were you holding a fishing pole?" she says. "It's like a long, thin stick."

He nods. "Yes … yes. I had … a pole."

"That's what it was then, Derek," she says, smiling. She loves when they find new memories for him to bask in. He has so few left intact that every single one is a treasure to cherish. "You remember fishing. With a beer. You used to come out here on your days off, sometimes. Mark came, too, before he died."

"I remember, but not Mark," he says.

She shrugs. "You came by yourself a lot, too."

"No .… No, I .… You." He smiles. "I remember you."

She blinks. "Me?"

"Yes."

Her heart sinks. Maybe, he's got something tangled. Two memories mixing. Something. "Derek, I've never gone fishing with you," she says. "I love that you love it, but … it's not my thing."

He shakes his head, and he thinks for a moment. "No, I mean … you … push me." He swallows. "Pushed me." He looks at the frothing water. "I falled."

Her jaw drops.

He shifts from foot to foot in agitation. "Did I said a … wrong thing?"

"No, I'm just …," Meredith says. She shakes her head. "Wow. You remember that? Really?"

"Yes."

"That was … less than a year after we met," she says.

He nods, and he grins at her. His eyes are twinkling. "Lemons into … lemonade."

"Yes!" she says with a gasp. "Oh, my god. You said that."

"You were … a good swimmer."

She doesn't know what the hell to say. She has no words. She visited his trailer a few days after they started fresh. She found him out on this dock, sitting in the scuzzy, blood-orange lawn chair, though the chair wasn't scuzzy back then. He put down his fishing pole and stood up to give her a kiss. She remembers his warm arms wrapping around her. She remembers the kiss, and she remembers the way he tasted. She forgets what snarky thing he said that made her do it, but she pushed him. Into the water. As revenge, he faked himself drowning. When she got close enough to the water to try and help him, he grabbed her shirt, lifted, and yanked her into the freezing water with him. She shrieked bloody murder at him, but he smirked at her, all irritating and smirky and … Derek. He shifted. The water sloshed. His shoes flew in an arc over the water and hit the dock, followed by his pants, which landed with a wet splurching sound, followed by his socks, and his shirt, and his boxers.

 _What the hell are you doing?_ she said, shivering as he stripped.

 _Lemons into lemonade_ he said, smirk getting even smirkier. _Care to join?_

Her throat is full and her vision is blurred when she comes back from the past. Derek watches her with a soft, hesitant grin. She pushes into his space, and she wraps her arms around him. The breeze ruffles his hair, and she can't resist pushing her fingers into it. His hesitant grin widens.

"You're a good swimmer, too, Mr. Swim Team," she says, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

"I'm … on team?"

"You were," she says. "All the way through college. Varsity. Varsity is like … the most skilled."

He nods. "Hmm," he says in consideration. The not-word rumbles in his chest. She puts her hand on his t-shirt. Her palm rests against his breastbone over his heart.

"Derek?" she says.

His eyebrows raise. "Yes?"

"Was that … a good memory for you?"

He shakes his head. "I don't remember a team."

"Not the team thing," she says. "The skinny-dipping." She shakes her head and rushes to say, "The swimming," as clarification, because she doubts he knows the phrase skinny-dipping, yet. She swallows. "Swimming with me."

The look in his eyes shifts from mere happiness to something deeper and more hungry, and for a moment, she forgets he's hurt. She's seen that look so many times in so many ways. He leans close. She can smell his aftershave. His soft breaths buffet her face. Her heartbeat flutters in her ears, and her mind races. He's in her space, and he initiated. Their shirts are touching. His hand slides low, past the small of the back. Lower. He's really in her space, there's no freaking way this is platonic, and-

His lips press to hers, and her world becomes that moment, drinking down the kiss like it's wine. When his lips part, she plunges with her tongue, desperate. He jerks in her grip like he's surprised, and, for a nanosecond, she worries that she's pushed too hard again, done something that makes him uncomfortable, but then he relaxes, and she feels him, too. Tasting her. Touching her. Copying what she's doing. And he's a fast freaking learner.

By the time he pulls away, she has spots blanketing her vision, and she's gasping. "Yes," he rumbles against her lips. "It was a good remember."

And then he kisses her again.

* * *

When she gets to work in the afternoon, she's bouncy. Freaking bouncy. Everybody stares at her like she's grown snakes for hair, like she's become an avatar for her nickname. Medusa. The gorgon who turns onlookers to stone. Because Meredith Grey is not a bouncy, smiley, happy person, and, by terrified intern logic, bouncy, smiley, happy Meredith must mean the apocalypse is on the way. But, today, there's no apocalypse. There's nothing wrong. She's bouncy, smiley, and happy, and she relishes it, because he kissed her, and she feels **amazing**.

 _Hmm,_ he said.

 _You practice on cadavers. You observe. And you think you know what you're gonna feel like standing over that table, but … that was such a high. I don't know why anybody does drugs._

They shared a long look, and the smile on his face made her heart flutter. _Yeah,_ he said, soft and reverent, like he was high, too. Stoned on surgery. On her enthusiasm.

 _Yeah,_ she echoed, fate sealed.

She feels like that, she realizes. The ride is starting. The whole Tilt-a-Whirl thing Maggie mentioned.

And Meredith doesn't want it to stop.

* * *

The second she starts up his iPod in the car, he shifts in his seat like he's agitated. She bites her lip, unwilling to pull away from the curb at the rehab center when he seems so unsettled. "Are you okay?" she says. She should turn the radio off. Should she turn it off? She should-

He makes it all of ten seconds, discomfort dripping from his frame, before he claps his hands over his ears and cringes away from the speakers like they're knives stabbing him. Meredith reaches for the radio dial and hits the mute button, horrified. Derek's curled up, panting, and he looks like he might vomit.

"What's wrong?" she says.

"I don't .…" He swallows. "I don't … like …."

She squeezes his shoulder, rubs her hand down his back. "Can you tell me what you don't like?"

"It hurt," he says, the words rasping.

"Your ears?" she says, frowning.

He doesn't have an answer for her.

She wonders if this is a specific result of the music she played, or if he's having problems with any noises today. It's hard to tell. She unplugs his iPod and sticks the input jack into hers, instead. She switches back to Lamb, which is what he listened to on Wednesday. She doesn't want to torture him, but she needs to figure out what's going on.

"Tell me if this hurts," she says, and she hits play. She watches him like a hawk, hand hovering on the dial, ready to slam the radio off the second he seems like he's hurting. She gets a few weird looks of … almost discomfort, but they disappear as soon as they arrive, and she's not sure what to make of them. He doesn't say he hurts, doesn't tell her to stop. She lets the song play for about thirty seconds before considering it an adequate test, and then she turns it off.

She bites her lip. "Can you tell me what about the other song made you hurt?"

He looks at her, frustrated. "The … the .…" He closes his eyes and thinks for a long moment. His mouth opens and closes. He pulls his fingers through his hair. "I don't … know word."

"Was it an instrument? The singing?"

He swallows thickly. "Instrument?"

"Um," she says, thinking, "The things that make the music. Like a drum. Or a guitar?"

He stares at her, no comprehension in his expression, and she realizes this might be a problem area. Trying to explain music to someone who doesn't have a common baseline of musical vocabulary with her. Like trying to explain colors to a blind person.

"Drums … make the rhythm," she says. "Like this." She taps on the dashboard. "This is a rhythm."

"I don't .…" he says. "I don't .…"

He's getting frustrated, so she says, "Don't worry about it. It's okay. We'll figure it out eventually."

She hooks Derek's iPod back up to the radio, but picks another genre, this time. Classical. He has a small collection of Mozart. Beethoven. Sometimes, he needed silence. Sometimes, though he used this stuff to help him focus during stressful surgeries, and she hopes this choice will be easy on his ears. She picks some random concerto she's never heard of and lets that play.

This song gets an actual smile, and she nods with satisfaction.

Derek Shepherd. **Hates** the Clash, now. Likes Mozart, though. They're making progress.

* * *

He dozes on the sofa next to her on Friday evening, conked out with his arm wrapped around her, while she watches junk television at low volume. It's not even nine, but rehab wiped him out. He snuffles awake during a commercial and withdraws his arm to rub his eyes.

"Hey," she whispers. "You should go to bed."

He nods. "Yes," he says, the word thick and full of sleep. He grabs his cane, and he lumbers to his feet, but then he leans down and presses his lips to her cheek. Quick. Like a habit. "Goodnight," he says, a soft murmur against her ear. He squeezes her shoulder, runs his hand down her arm to her elbow in a gesture of affection, and then he turns to leave.

"G'night," she says, yawning, and before she can second guess herself, she adds, "I love you." Because he said it was okay, and she hates not saying it when the need to do so swells in her chest.

He stops at those words. Turns to look at her. His gaze is soft, and warm, and open, and he doesn't say it back, but he smiles. "Hmm," he rumbles instead.

And then he goes to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes:**

Thank you so much for the feedback, everybody :) If you post without being logged in, I can't reply directly to you - so I just wanted to add here I really appreciate everybody who takes the time to leave me a note!

Derek has what's known as Broca's Aphasia. It's a non-fluent, expressive aphasia, meaning speaking does not come naturally to him, and he has to think very hard about what he wants to say. People with Broca's Aphasia are known for what's called telegraphic speech, which is speech stripped of everything but major nouns and un-conjugated verbs. "I ran to the park to play," becomes "Run park play," or in the most severe cases, possibly just, "Park." Someone with Broca's Aphasia isn't going to be able to compose a coherent sentence longer than five words or so. Since Broca's is an expressive aphasia, not an interpretive one, Derek's comprehension of what he hears vastly outstrips his ability to express himself. Comprehension is still affected, though, due to his reduced ability to hear and comprehend tiny function words as well as grammatical complexities.

All forms of expression are affected. People with sign language with Broca's have the same issues converting thoughts to signs as Derek does converting thoughts to words. Reading aloud is another problem area.

Derek's aphasia is somewhere in the realm of mild to moderate, depending on how rested he is, and I've learned, through the course of writing this story, that it's really easy to write bad English, but it's really difficult to write bad English with the consistency and rules of someone not butchering English on purpose, but rather due to cognitive limitations. I came up with a big spreadsheet matrix to help me determine how Derek might talk in any given scene. I made a list of the irregular verbs he knows and doesn't know, typical grammatical slips, typical word wrong substitutions (question/ask, remember/memory, etc), how many words Derek can use in a sentence before things start falling apart (5, then 6, 7, 8, 9 as the story progresses). I even went so far as to have a speech therapist review a chapter to see if I had Derek's speech patterns sounding somewhat realistic for someone with his disability (THANK YOU BTW!).

There was a method to the madness, as well. I based Derek's primary issues (Broca's Aphasia & right-side weakness) on the location of the blood on his forehead in the bloody gurney pictures I saw of 11x21 (though I admit I still haven't seen this episode and never plan to).

Anyway, It's been a fascinating challenge for me to write this, and I appreciate the help I've been given making this story shine. If you're really curious about what Derek might sound like, there's some wonderful videos posted on YouTube. I can't post the link here because ffnet strips links. Just search for "broca's aphasia sarah scott" and the very first video that pops up is the first in a series of videos of a teenage stroke survivor with expressive aphasia. The videos show you her progress at 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6 years.

* * *

 **Week seven.**

She's bought him seven different kinds of beer that she remembers him liking before, and she lines a bottle of each one on the table before him, arraying them like a row of soldiers. She caps off the line with a glass of water. It's after the kids are in bed on Friday, and the house is quiet.

He stares at the drinks with a dubious look. "This is beer?"

"Yep!" Meredith says.

He pulls the first bottle on the left toward him. The cap is metal and requires a bottle opener. She demonstrates for him how to use it, and he watches with a hawklike stare as the cap pops off, and a smoky twist of vapor curls out of the bottle. Condensation forms on the cold glass.

"I think this one was your favorite," she says. "But I could be wrong."

He sniffs the mouth of the bottle and makes a face. His dubious look grows. He raises the bottle to his lips and tips it back. One chug, and a disgusted look replaces his dubiousness. He grimaces, and his swallow is a slow one that reminds her of a boa constrictor trying to swallow a deer or something. She watches his Adam's apple bobble along his throat.

"I liked this?" he says, tone incredulous. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and looks like he wants to spit out his mouth. Not just the beer. His entire freaking mouth.

She gives him a sheepish look. "Beer's kind of an acquired taste."

He looks at her. "What does …? What is …? What is acquired taste?"

She shrugs. "It means you have to taste it a lot before it tastes good. Same with coffee."

He takes another sip. And another. And then he coughs. "I don't know how this … good."

She pushes the glass of water at him. "Cleanse your palate."

"Palate?" he says. He tips back the glass and swishes the water in his mouth before swallowing.

"Your sense of taste," she clarifies.

"Oh," he says. He looks at the long line of beer bottles, frowning.

"Want to try the next one?" she says.

"No," he says.

Still, he takes the bottle opener with his right hand. He manages to lift it, but when he presses it against the bottle cap and puts his elbow into it to add weight, his grip fails, and he drops the tool. The bottle opener lands on the table with a loud smack. He looks at his hand for a moment, flexes his fingers. A frustrated sound loiters deep in his throat.

She stares at him, jaw threatening to drop. He says he's been working on his grip in physical therapy, but this is the first time she's seen the awesome results. His gaze twitches to her, as if he senses her watching him. "It's bad," he says.

She scoots her chair closer until the edge is touching his, and she takes his hand. She strokes her thumb along his palm. "Derek, you could barely make a fist a few months ago." She squeezes his hand. "This isn't bad; this is amazing." He moves his fingers in her grip, each flaring up in quick succession like a crowd doing the wave at a football game. He couldn't have done that a little while ago, either. Moving individual fingers used to be a slow process that took him lots of thought. She can't stop herself from grinning like an idiot. "Derek that's **not** bad. Not even a little."

He doesn't seem to believe her. She shifts his hand, closing his fingers over her palm. "Squeeze as hard as you can."

"Why?" he says.

"I want to see," she says. "Try."

For a minute, nothing happens, and she worries that maybe she's overestimated his improvement. But then she feels his grip closing around her. The force he can generate isn't much, but she can feel him against her, and he's doing far more than resting skin to skin like he seemed to be last time he tried this.

"Derek, this is so great!" she says.

A vague smile pulls at his lips, but he says nothing. His skin is warm, and he's close. He stares at her with an unreadable look in his eyes, which are almost black in the dim light of the chandelier overhead. She meets his gaze, and time seems to stretch. He twitches in her direction, like he wants to kiss her, but … isn't sure .…

She opts for direct. "Go ahead," she says. "Kiss me."

He pulls his hand free from her grasp to rest it on her shoulder, and he leans. Into her space. He nuzzles her. Presses his nose to her hair. Inhales. When he nibbles her earlobe, and she giggles, he stops. She scrunches her fingers against his lower back, urging him on.

"I like this," she says, hoping to avoid the possibility of mixed messages. "I didn't giggle because it's funny. I giggled because it feels good." She kisses him, too. Kisses his throat.

He fumbles, a bit awkward, but he settles into the moment when he reaches her lips, and they do what he already knows, what she taught him last time. Taste. Explore. Plunge. The bitterness of the beer he drank loiters in his mouth, but that doesn't stop her from taking whatever he gives.

She loses herself as seconds become minutes become … uncountable.

When he pulls away, he's panting, and there's a telltale bulge in his pants that tells her he enjoyed himself. He enjoyed her. He wants her. She doesn't draw attention to that, though, doesn't want to spook him. She licks her lips and swallows.

"Still six more to try," she says in a husky voice. She clears her throat.

He moves back to the task at hand, this time switching to his left hand to guide the bottle opener. He has no trouble this time, and pops open the second bottle with little effort. He picks up the beer and manages a sip before gagging. He works his way down the whole line, forcing himself to take at least three or four swallows of each one, with a sip and swish of water between them. By the end, he's blinking, and his eyes are watering, and he looks a bit nauseated.

"I don't think I … acquire this."

She laughs. She can't help it.

"Really, I liked this?" he says, his frown deepening.

"You did," Meredith says. But the whole point of this was to find out what he likes, **now**. She reaches across the table and grabs his hand. "It's fine if you don't like it anymore."

"Was my head okay … before?"

And she laughs again. "I don't know," she says. She reaches up to brush a loose curl out of his face. "Sometimes, I wondered."

He snorts. Not quite a laugh. She realizes she hasn't ever heard him laugh. Not since he hit his head. But his eyes are sparkling with amusement, and he's looking at her, and she finds herself sighing, caught in the trap of his heady stare.

"Do **you** like this?" he says.

"Beer?" Meredith says. She snorts. "Hell, no. That stuff is gross."

"What do you like?"

She snickers. "You don't want what I like," she says. "Trust me."

"Let me try," he says.

"Fine," she says, "but you'll be sorry."

She gets up and shuffles to the liquor cabinet where she has a bottle of _Gran Dovejo Reposado_ stored for those special occasions when wine won't fix things _._ She looks at what else they have, shrugs, and grabs his old bottle of _Laphroaig_ , which is three-quarters empty and hasn't been touched in over a year. Then, for the hell of it, she grabs a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream. Bailey's is always an easy sell. She likes to think of it as a gateway liquor.

She grabs a tall stack of shot glasses last, waddles back to the table with her awkward bundle, and then heads back to the kitchen to grab some salt and a lime from the door of the refrigerator. She slices the lime and puts the slices on a small plate.

She returns to her seat beside him, setting the plate and salt shaker down. She pushes all the beer bottles away, and the mess clinks as all the glass smacks against more glass. One bottle almost tips, but she saves it. She pulls the tequila, scotch, and Bailey's to the forefront and arrays them in front of him.

She points at the tequila bottle. "This is my poison of choice."

"You … drink poison?" he says.

She giggles. "Well, no, but it'll probably taste like poison to you."

"Oh," he says. He wears an amusing expression on his face. Sort of … _Crap, what did I get myself into?_

"When people tell you to pick your poison, they're asking what kind of liquor you like."

He nods, staring at the bottle filled with golden-colored liquid. She points at the scotch next. "This is your old favorite," she says.

"I thought … I liked … beer."

"You did," she says. She wraps her hands around the neck of the bottle. "And you had a favorite beer, but this?" She jiggles the scotch bottle. "This was your favorite liquor."

"My poison," he says.

She nods. "Yes."

He looks at the Bailey's. "What is …?"

"This," she says, spinning the bottle around to show him the label, "is what I serve people who say they don't like liquor, but are willing to be convinced otherwise. It's a fallback."

He churns on that for a moment. "… Okay," he says.

She picks up two of the shot glasses she's brought to the table and sets them in front of him, one for her, one for him. She pours both of them a shot of tequila. He reaches for the glass, but she bats his hand away. "There's a special way you do this one."

He blinks, and he looks at her, bewildered.

"Allow me to demonstrate," she says. She takes the salt shaker and dumps salt on her hand. Then she takes the shot glass in the other hand. "It's a four-step process. Lick, chug, bite, suck."

"… Okay," he says, not taking the porny bait to make a snarky comment. He watches her.

She presses her tongue to the back of her hand and licks up all the salt. Then she takes her shot glass and kicks it back. Fire funnels down her throat. She's done this too much to gag or cough, but it's been long enough since she's partaken that her eyes water. She grabs the lime, bites into the fruit, and sucks it. Her last swallow completes the maneuver. She licks her lips and ends the experience with an, "Ugh."

He looks at the shot. And the salt shaker. And the lime slice. He picks up the shot glass and sniffs it. The smell alone is enough to make some people gag, and he's one of those.

"Is **your** head … okay?" he says, clearing his throat.

She blinks. "Are you calling me brain-damaged for liking tequila?"

He looks away, but not before she catches what looks like a smirk on his face. "Maybe."

She snorts. "Well, I suppose it takes one to know one."

His body jerks like he's laughed, but she doesn't hear any sound. She pours herself another shot while he stares at his, a serious must-conquer look on his face. At first, she thinks he isn't going to try the shot. But he's still as stubborn as he used to be. Despite her warning, despite the fact that the smell nauseates him, he goes for the salt shaker, and he copies her lick, chug, bite, suck steps to the letter. He even uses his weak hand to hold the lime. The only thing he doesn't do is end with an, "Ugh." Instead, he coughs, and his eyes water to the point that he's crying, and he looks for a moment like he might vomit. But he keeps it down like a pro, and she gives him a playful slap on the back.

She can't resist a cheerful, "Told you so!" while he wheezes, trying to catch his breath. She follows his shot with another one for her, and the fire in her throat becomes a backdraft. She shakes her head and finishes with an, "Ugh," to cool herself off.

"This is …," he begins, still panting, "good to you?"

She laughs. "No, of course not. You don't drink straight tequila for the taste."

"What do you …?"

"You'll feel why in a little while," she assures him. She refills her shot glass with tequila. "Want another?"

He makes a face. "No." And from his tone and his face, she can imagine pre-accident Derek belting out, _Jesus Christ,_ _ **no**_ _!_

So, he's done with the tequila experiment, but he looks at the scotch. He's being a trooper. She grabs the bottle and pours him a shot of that. "Normally this goes in a tumbler," she says. "But shot glasses work."

"A tumbler is?" he says.

"A kind of cup," she says. "Ready?"

"Do I use … salt?" he says. "And lime?"

She shakes her head. "No, just tip that one back, and drink it plain."

"Okay," he says.

They both knock their shots back together. Her throat feels like napalm stripped it raw when she ends her lick, chug, bite, suck routine, and her finishing, "Ugh," is more raspy air than word. She blinks as the world goes a little spin-y for a second, and a hot flush spreads across her skin. Derek puts his empty shot glass down on the table.

"Well, you're not gagging this time," she says.

"That was …," he says. He swallows. "Not … awful."

She laughs. "Found a taste you'd like to acquire, then?"

He smiles. "May … be."

"Want to try the Bailey's?" she says.

He thinks for a long moment. He blinks, the motion long and slow. "Sure," he says, but he lingers so long on the shh sound that it's clear he's become intimate with the reason why people drink tequila. He looks up at her, and she realizes for the first time that he's flushed, and his stare is thousand yard. He shakes his head like he has no idea what's going on, but that only seems to make him more fuzzy. His confused squint almost makes her laugh.

"I feel …," he says, but his words taper to nothing, and he looks at her with a puzzled expression. The kind of expression that tells her he's got no words for whatever he feels. He looks at his right hand, and puzzled burgeons into bewildered. He flexes his fingers. They respond, but not like they did a little while ago, not like when he was showing her his grip. The movements are sluggish and imprecise. "I … feel .…" he says, but again, he doesn't finish his sentence.

This is wrong, a little voice tells her. This is so wrong. But her head is fuzzy, too. Fuzzy and spin-y. And everything is getting hot like the room is an oven. She giggles at him. "S'why you drink tequila!"

He stares at her for a long time. "… Oh."

She pours him a shot of Bailey's, and she goes for a fourth shot of tequila. "You drink that plain, too," she says. "Ready?"

When he nods, she says, "Go!" and kicks back the next tequila shot. Lick. Chug. Bite. Suck. The napalm in her throat explodes like dynamite, and her ending, "Ugh," is barely a hiccup of air.

Derek sets his empty shot glass on the table. He blinks, looking at the Bailey's bottle. "I … like .…"

"Two for three," she says. "Not bad."

Her head feels cloudy, and as the euphoria drowns her, she giggles for no particular reason. She's having fun with her husband, who lived, and that's a happy, happy thing. She flops against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and she looks up at him. His throat is all stubbly and lickable, and she has the crazy idea of dumping salt on it for a special shot. She giggles again, and she leans up to kiss the juncture between his neck and jaw.

"Hmm," he rumbles, deep in his throat, and the syllable vibrates against her lips.

He turns to face her with glassy, unfocused eyes that have nothing to do with the prodrome phase of a migraine. He grins at her. She presses her nose into him, breathing. He smells like the before Derek, which makes sense, since she gave him the same aftershave and shampoo he always used. She kisses him. Once. Again. Again. And then she nibbles, pulling a small tent of his flesh between her teeth.

He laughs. A full, throaty chuckle.

The sound of it adds to her buzz. So, he's still ticklish, then. That's nice to know. He's still ticklish, he hates beer, kind of likes scotch, and is a shoe-in for Bailey's. Her mental list grows. Who is Derek Shepherd.

She pulls her fingers through his hair in a sloppy gesture, snorting with hopeless amusement when her fingers get stuck halfway to the nape of his neck. She tries to extricate herself. He dips low, into her space, hovering. He takes her mouth with his own, and she forgets about trying to free her hand. Her fingers flex as she holds on.

He tastes like alcohol. He tastes like hers. Their union is a fire. She moans against him, and the time whittles away like wood off a carving until there's no time at all. Just him, pressed into her space, kissing her.

* * *

"Mommy," says a quiet, tiny voice. Something presses into her shoulder. "Mommy."

She squints through her eyelashes toward the sound. Light pierces her pupils, and she moans. Her head throbs in time with her heartbeat, her mouth tastes like paste, and she feels like she's going to vomit.

"Mommy," repeats the voice, and she manages to get her eyes all the way open. A pair of bright blue eyes that aren't Derek's stare back at her. Where did Derek go?

"Derek?" she mumbles.

"Mommy, I hungry," Bailey says.

She waves a hand at her son, shooing him away, and struggles to sit up despite her spinning head. She remembers kissing Derek, and then … more tequila, and more tequila, and then .… And then …?

She snorts, only to wince, as an odd wave of _déjà vu_ hits her. She's on the couch. Derek's out cold on the floor on his stomach. The only major difference from their first-ever morning together is that their clothes aren't strewn all over. Both of them are still dressed. Mostly. Derek's lost his shirt, somehow – she wishes she could remember that part – but he has pants. She has pants. So, no sex happened, she thinks through the pounding in her head, which … is .… She's too woozy to decide what it is.

"Mommy, when's breakfast?" Bailey says. He's standing obliviously next to the couch, between Derek, who's still sprawled and unmoving, and Meredith, who's trying hard to show signs of life. There's no sign of Zola. She must still be asleep.

Meredith sits up, rubbing her eyes. She licks her lips. She wishes she had a pause phrase like Derek. A go-away-and-stop-talking-for-a-bit phrase. But she doesn't.

"Mommy?" Bailey prods.

Derek's shirt is in a messy heap on the floor by the dining room table. His cane is .… She frowns. She's not sure where his cane is, and it makes her head hurt trying to think about it. She wobbles to her feet and takes Bailey to the kitchen. Cooking anything is out of the question right now, so she pours him a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and douses it with milk.

"Here," she says, and she sets the bowl on his tray table for him after putting him into his high chair. She heads to the bathroom to relieve herself, chug some acetaminophen, and splash her face with a shock of cold water in attempt to wake the hell up. She carries the bottle of painkillers back out to the living room with her, grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen on the way, and she kneels on the rug beside her passed-out husband.

She thinks he had at least one more shot of scotch last night, but, still, having not drunk anything in over a year, he'd be a bit of a lightweight in terms of his ability to process alcohol. She splays her fingers on his spine and says, "Derek," in a soft voice. "Derek, wake up." Her head is throbbing like a gong, and a wave of nausea barrels through her. She pauses to pinch the bridge of her nose and swallow, swallow, swallow. When the ugh moment passes, she adds another, "Derek?" to the morning.

He comes back to consciousness with a low groan. He squints at her with bloodshot blue eyes. "Wha …?" he grumbles. And his eyes snap shut again. He rolls his face into the carpet like he's trying to shrink away from the sunlight.

"Can you sit up?" she says. She jingles the bottle of acetaminophen at him. "This will make you feel better."

As soon as he ratchets into an upright position, she plies him with the acetaminophen and water. "Good morning," she says while he rubs his eyes and tries to find sentience. He looks at her with a wince, but he doesn't speak. "And, now," she says, grinning, "you know what a hangover is."

A deep sound loiters in his throat, and he stares at her with a baffled expression. "What … hap … happen?" he says. Then he looks down at himself, at his lack of shirt. He folds his arms to cover naked skin, and he blushes like a stoplight.

That's when she realizes what she's done. Her stomach clenches, and she bites her lip as guilt hollows out a pit inside her body. Crap. Crap, crap. Crap. **Crap**. She got Derek drunk as a skunk last night. She got Derek drunk as a skunk without even pausing to explain to him what was happening to him, or what the headache-y, vomit-y consequences would be. She took his judgment away without asking, first. He could have been scared, or confused, or … something, and she got herself too blitzed to care about anything but the fact that she was happy. She freaking roofied her own husband.

She winces as she gets up to grab his shirt for him. She bends to pick it up. They didn't have sex, she tells herself. They didn't have sex. It's not as bad as it could be.

"Derek, I'm so sorry," she croaks, unsure what else to say. She hands him his wrinkled shirt and collapses back to the floor beside him. "I'm so, **so** sorry."

Confusion drips across his features. He winces as he pulls his shirt back on. "Why?"

"I didn't tell you those drinks last night were alcoholic," she says.

He's silent for a long moment. "What is … alcoholic?"

God, she wants to cry. No, she is crying. She's freaking crying. She screwed up. She screwed up so freaking bad. And her head hurts, and she's nauseated, as if she needs physical reminders. For a minute, she can't even speak, she's so overcome. Guilt coils like a snake.

He inches toward her. "Why upset?" he says, and he pulls her into a hug.

"Alcohol is a drug," she says. "Like your pain pills. It's a drug. And I gave it to you without telling you you were taking it."

He blinks at her. God, damn it; she's lost him. "… What?" he says.

"You know how your pain pills make you sleepy?" she says.

He nods.

"Alcohol makes you sleepy," she says. "And happy."

She has a vague flash of memory of them moving to the couch. He had the cane then. He needed it. Pumping his system full of a depressant that affects the central nervous system, a depressant that in high enough doses turns even normal adults into slow-moving, uncoordinated lummoxes who can't stand up, is enough to make Derek's weak side act almost dead. The nice thing about being stupid drunk, though, was that they both found his immobility hilarious at the time. That he had one leg and one arm acting like entrants in a best spaghetti contest was a comedy routine adding to their giggles. She thinks she might remember a bunny hop or two as they tried to move into the living room. And, god, the laughter. Except now she's starting to doubt her interpretation of events, her interpretation of his demeanor. Was **he** laughing? Was **he** having fun?

And, now, she's even more disgusted. "It makes it harder to move," she adds, "and it makes you do things you wouldn't normally do."

He stares at her for a long moment. "Oh," he says.

Another flash of memory. She recalls picking up his right hand, the one he couldn't control, and kissing every finger. _Can you feel that?_ she said, but he couldn't answer except to purr his approval deep in his throat, because the other thing about drunk Derek they discovered was that drunk Derek can't speak. Like at all. Not even monosyllabic stuff. He can make noise, but not a bit of it makes any sense. Which drives home to her how much conscious effort he must put into talking.

"I'm so sorry," she says. "I'm so sorry I didn't warn you."

 _What about this?_ she said. And she slid her hands underneath his shirt. He arched into the touch, giving her groan of pleasure. Was it pleasure, though? Maybe, it was fear. How would she know? He couldn't freaking talk. Meredith licks her lips nervously as she follows the memory to completion, and sees Derek's shirt fly across the room in her mind's eye.

Derek's hugging her, and she doesn't get it. She doesn't get why he would be hugging her after this. "This hurt is a … hangover?" he says.

She sniffs. Wipes her face. "Yes. You get it when the alcohol wears off."

"Okay," he says.

"This is **not** okay!" she says. "This is so far from okay."

Except he shrugs, and he gives her a lopsided smile despite the haggard look on his face. "I had fun with you," he says. "If you … warned me, I will … still … drink. Why not okay?"

She blinks at him. "Really? You weren't scared?"

His embrace tightens. "I trust you," he says with an easy shrug. "You were happy." He thinks for a moment. "I was okay."

She sits in his arms, gobsmacked. She gave him a debilitating substance. But she was happy, and he decided this was enough for him to not be worried about the fact that he couldn't talk or move his leg or hand anymore? She presses her ear against his chest and breathes, soaking up his warmth. She didn't want to screw this up before, but, now, more than ever, she does **not** want to screw this up.

"I won't mess it up again," she swears.

"I mess up lots," he says. "You can one or twice."

She blinks at his idea of a joke, snorts, and looks up at him. His eyes are twinkling, and he has such an easy, relaxed look despite how pale he is. She finds herself falling in love all over again. Derek Shepherd, version 2.0. So much of the old Derek. But so much new, too.

"Okay?" he says.

She sniffs and nods. "Okay."

Now that she's calmed down a little, he scoots toward the edge of the couch and hoists himself to his feet. He looks around the room from his wobbly standing position. "Where is … my cane?" he says.

She shrugs. "I have no idea where it went."

This is like her exam room panties all over again, adding to her secret shame, she thinks. His cane will end up stapled to a bulletin board somewhere or something. Seriously, though. She peers around. He had his cane last night at the dining room table. He had his cane when they were moving to the couch. A cane isn't a small thing like panties. Where the hell could it have gone?

Derek hobbles one step away from the couch. He's got a bit of a desperate expression on his face, now, and she realizes he hasn't had a chance to make a pit stop like she has. He hops one more step.

"Do you need help?" she says, stepping over to him, offering to be his temporary cane until they can find where his ran off to.

He puts a hand on her shoulder for balance. "Let me try."

For a second, with her pounding head, she's not sure what he means, but he takes a test step, and his intention clicks. "I bet you can do it," she says.

He takes another step. And another.

"Mommy?" Zola calls.

"One second, Zozo," Meredith responds, focusing on Derek.

He reminds her of a fawn walking for the first time, shaky and uncertain. She moves with him, ready to catch him if he starts to have problems. Though his fingers dig in, grabbing a tent of her shirt, he doesn't put any weight on her. Without his cane, his limp is the most pronounced she's ever seen it, and he has to think about every step, but he manages to push himself through the awkwardness. He walks all the way to the bathroom without any help save for her shoulder offering him a reminder about how to stay upright.

"Thank you," he says when they arrive at his destination. He leaves the safety of her shoulder and hobbles into the bathroom, hand clutching the edge of the sink for balance. She closes the door behind him and goes to look for his cane again.

Seriously. Where the hell?

* * *

"I didn't take it, Mommy," Zola says. "I didn't!"

Bailey shakes his head. "Not me. Not me."

The kids won't confess, even with an ice cream offer on the table, and Meredith's out of ideas. She rubs the bridge of her nose, trying to quell the nausea that swells. Her head throbs. She wishes she could remember what happened last night. They have to find the damned thing eventually – there's only so many places a three-foot-long stick can be hidden – but in the meantime, Derek's stuck without a cane.

"Meredith," Derek calls from the hallway, and she goes to check on him.

He's made it halfway back from the bathroom without any help at all. He leans against the wall, using his shoulder to keep weight off his weak leg, and he's still standing, but he looks like he's stranded there. Still, she has to admit, he can work a lean as well as he always could, and he looks **good**. Her insides tighten as she stares.

He gives her a sheepish look. "Help," he says in a soft voice. He swallows. "Please."

She steps next to him, and he puts his arm over her shoulder. He's got weight on her, now. A lot. But it's nice to know he can move around a little unaided. He's making so much progress.

"Are you doing this in rehab?" Meredith asks as they hobble down the hall together.

He swallows. "Walk … without cane?"

"Yeah," she says.

"I try," he says. "But I never did … before."

Meredith blinks. "This is the first time you've been able to do it?"

His smile could fuel a nuclear power facility. "Yes."

"What's wrong?" Zola says when she sees them struggling toward the couch.

"Daddy needs his cane," Meredith says. And she gives Zola a stern look. "Which is why, if you took it, you should tell us, now."

"I **didn't**!" Zola insists.

This is going to be a long freaking day, Meredith thinks. Her head pounds.

* * *

"Found it," Derek says, lying flat on the floor on his stomach as he peers under the couch. He reaches underneath and pulls out the cane. He uses it for balance as he climbs off the floor.

Meredith gapes. "How in the hell did it get down there?"

He collapses onto the couch next to her. "My last remember is … scotch." He grimaces. "Lots scotch."

She grins, but a little sliver of insecurity digs into her. "Good memories, right?"

His gaze softens. "Yes. I had fun."

He's hooked his cane over his arm, and she takes it into her hands. It's a simple wooden one, about three feet long, with a hand clip at the top and a rubber foot at the bottom. She brushes her fingertips along the smooth surface.

"What?" he says.

"Do you remember Addison?" she says.

He blinks. He looks at the cane for a long moment.

"There's no connection," she says to ease his mental churn. No connection except panties, which she's not sure she'll ever explain to him. There are some things in their history that she appreciates having erased. "I was just wondering. If you remember her."

Addison came to visit him when he was at Seattle Grace, when he was still in a vegetative state, but nothing more than that. She hasn't been back since. She's called to find out how he's doing every once in a while, but … not much else.

"Who is Addison?" he says.

"Your wife," Meredith says. "Before me."

He looks at her with a blank expression.

"She had red hair. She was about your height. Sometimes, she wore glasses. She had an angular face. A pointy chin. She was leggy and fabulous."

He thinks for a long moment, but the blank look doesn't leave him. "I don't know," he says.

She nods, but she's not sure how this makes her feel. She gives him back his cane, and she rests her head on his shoulder, content to let the moments pass in silence. She hears the kids behind them, still coloring at the dining room table, off in their own universe. He pulls his fingers through her hair, and she sighs.

"Why did I had two?" he says. The rumble of his words hit her eardrums.

She clutches a tent of his t-shirt. "Wives?"

"Yes."

She kisses him through the soft cotton, pressing her lips to the space over his heart. She doesn't want to give him the painful, sordid tale. Not right now. She settles for saying, "You fell out of love. It happens, sometimes."

"I meeted … meeted .…" A sigh. A long pause. "I met you at bar … after?"

She smiles. "Sort of. You had a … fight. With her. And you met me while you were still fighting."

He nods, and he doesn't ask another question. He thinks for a long moment, and she lets her own mind drift, happy to sit here with her alive husband while her children play at the table. The sofa cushion squeaks as he leans into her space and kisses her.

"I'm glad I met you," he says.

Her eyes prick. Even now, he can sweep her off her feet. "Me, too," she says, and she kisses him back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes:**

Thanks again for the feedback, everybody! I truly appreciate it!

Some eagle-eyed readers have noticed I dropped the rating of this story to T from M. FFNet does not include M-rated stories in the general listing without a user specifically filtering for M-rated stories. The story is still rated M, but not until later chapters. In the meantime, I wanted to make it easier for people to find the story. I will bump the rating back up when the story gets more explicit.

* * *

 **Week eight.**

On Sunday, when she runs errands, she takes Derek along. She's trying to take him out of the house for some one-on-one time as much as possible, and with two young children, she has to grab at any chance she gets, however mundane. Plus, though they're boring errands to her, she thinks he might enjoy seeing new things. They live in a horrible location for someone who can't drive, and she thinks taking him out might be helping his state of mind improve. He's seemed a lot more upbeat since she started throwing "dates" into the mix.

She lets him drop the mail into the mailbox. She shows him how to fill up the gas tank on her Jeep, too. He pays the clerk at the gas station for the candy bar she grabs on his own, though – his occupational therapist must have given him the rundown on money.

When they walk into the grocery store, he stops dead a few feet inside the door. He looks around with wide eyes, absorbing all the visual stimuli. He swallows, staring at all of it. "It's … pretty," he says, no sarcasm in his tone, just interest.

She tips her head to the side, looking at the wide open area. She's never thought of the produce section as pretty before – it's always been just a bunch of fruits and vegetables to her – but .… Huh. All the deep green hues. The reds, oranges, and yellows. A bit like the top half of a rainbow. "Yeah," she says. "I guess it is."

He already knows the names of a lot of the simple things from flashcards. He wanders around, testing his vocabulary, and he gets almost all of them right. "This is … lettuce?" he says, and she wants to say yes, but something doesn't look quite right, so she glances at the price label.

"Apparently, it's cabbage," she says.

He frowns. "You didn't knew?"

"I suck at cooking," she says. "I'm just good at eating."

He picks up a group of stalks held together with a rubber band, frown deepening. "What is …?"

"Asparagus," she says.

"Is it good?"

She shrugs. "I'm not a good person to ask about vegetables."

"You don't like … vegetables?"

"I'm more of a cooks-out-of-a-can person," she says.

He turns the bundle of asparagus over in his hand like he's examining a precious gem.

"You want to try it?" she says. He puts the asparagus into a plastic bag, copying what she did earlier with the potatoes, and drops it into the cart. She grins at him. "Guess that's a yes." She has no idea how to cook asparagus, but that's what Google is for, and though she doesn't like cooking, the idea of figuring out how to cook this with Derek seems kind of fun.

There doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to what attracts his attention. In addition to asparagus, he picks up a kiwi, a kumquat, some beans that look like green beans but are white, snap peas, brussels sprouts, a papaya, a cantaloupe, and a carrot. There's a section filled with broccoli florets and cauliflower where mist is spraying from a tiny hose, and Derek stops to watch that for a moment. They spend almost forty-five minutes in the produce section alone before moving on.

He stops at the seafood counter. His nose crinkles at the fishy odor. He peers at the lobsters in a tank behind the glass, and he turns to look at her with a question in his gaze. "Those are lobsters, and, no, we're not getting one," she says.

"Lobsters are bad," he says, not a question.

"No, they're wonderful, but if you want to try one, we'll have to go to a restaurant."

"Why?" he says.

"I draw the line at throwing something that's still alive into boiling water," she says. "I just can't do it."

He takes a long moment to parse that, but he swallows, and he looks disturbed. "You cook it … alive?"

She sighs. "You have to, so it doesn't make you sick."

"No lobster," he says with a nod, and then his gaze passes over all the things in the display. Shrimp. Various fish filets. Crab legs. Mussels. The attendant looks at them like they're crazy when they spend ten minutes standing there, staring and discussing vocabulary, but whatever.

She likes that Derek's having fun.

They pause in the meat section for her to grab some bacon, and some chicken, and then they start wandering the aisles with all the canned food and pre-prepared stuff. He's not as engaged by canned things and doesn't pause much. He does like the chip aisle, though.

"There is … other kinds of … nachos?" he says.

She shakes her head. "Nachos are a kind of chip," she says. "But there are lots of kinds of chips."

He nods, absorbing that. "This is chips."

"Yep," she says.

He wanders up and down the aisle, looking at everything, and he grabs a few different things. Doritos, Ruffles, Cheetos, and some kettle chips. She snorts at him as he puts the bag of kettle chips into their cart.

He looks up at her. "What?"

"It's just … so unbelievably weird to see you buying potato chips."

"I didn't liked them?" he says.

"You were kind of big on the whole my body is my temple thing."

He licks his lips, staring at her with an uncomprehending look.

"Uh," she says, thinking of how to clarify. "You liked to eat healthy things."

"This is not healthy?"

"Not really, no."

He frowns at that, but then he shrugs, and they keep walking, curiosity propelling him onward. When he decides to grab some ice cream from the freezers, too, she can't stop herself from smiling anymore. "Grab the strawberry," she suggests. "It's the pink one." She moves down two cases and pulls some coffee-flavored ice cream from the heap, too.

Given that he hates coffee, now, she thinks this might be a dud, but she's enjoying the rediscovery. When they meet back at the cart, he meets her gaze with a gorgeous smile. Their overstuffed cart is full of a mountain of Derek's I-want-to-try-its. He seems to be enjoying the rediscovery thing, too. They dump the frozen cartons of ice cream into the massive heap.

Derek Shepherd. Definitely not a health nut anymore.

So. Freaking. Weird.

* * *

One of the coolest things about their house's locale is that the view on July 4 is breathtaking. They can see three separate fireworks shows going on in the valley below the house, each in a different cardinal direction from their deck. The two that are to the left and right of the house are tiny echoes of color, far in the distance. The show smack in the center of the deck's horizon, though, is big, and close, and loud, and gorgeous. All they have to do to enjoy it is sit outside and watch.

The first year they lived out here in the house, Derek and Meredith discovered this by accident when the explosions drowned out the television. She remembers standing out on the deck in the cool night air. His arm slipped around her shoulder, and he pulled her close.

 _You never told me about this,_ she said.

He shrugged, watching the fireworks with a mystified expression. _I didn't know!_

 _How in the hell did you not know you had your trailer parked right under a fireworks show?_ she asked him.

He gave her an easy smile and said, _Sheer dumb luck?_ with a shrug. _I'm a lucky guy, after all._ And then he pressed close and kissed her. _Wanna make me lucky tonight?_

 _What's in it for me?_ she purred.

 _Lots and **lots** of fireworks_ , he said with a smirk.

"Do you remember fireworks?" she says as Derek eases into the reclining lawn chair beside her, and he settles Bailey into his lap. Zola sits on Meredith, bouncy and bubbly and hard to contain.

"When do they start, Mommy?" Zola says.

Meredith glances at her watch. "They're supposed to be started already. Just wait a few minutes."

"What … are … fireworks?" Derek says.

"They make colors in the sky," she says, since she doesn't think he knows what explosives are. "They're noisy," she warns him. "You'll hear some big booms. Let me know if the noise is bothering you."

He nods and peers out at the dark, overcast sky, a curious expression on his face. "What are fireworks … for?"

She's not quite sure how to explain declaring independence from the British to him in small pieces he'd understand. She thinks for a long moment. She doesn't have a chance to come up with a cogent answer for him, though, because a sharp whistle in the distance interrupts her thoughts. Derek winces. A few seconds later, a big boom so loud she can feel it in her chest thunders through the air, and a shower of purple and green erupts like a blooming flower in front of them.

Bailey and Zola both clap and cheer with excitement.

The next time she glances at Derek, she grins. He stares at the sky, wide-eyed, jaw fallen. Another sharp whistle of a launching firework makes him wince. Another boom. Another brilliant flash of color. The booms don't seem to bug him. Only the whistles. High-pitched noise seems to be the trouble. He doesn't tell her he's having issues, though, so she thinks, maybe, whatever pain he's experiencing from the whistles isn't enough to offset the wonder of the colorful brilliance in the sky.

Another whistle. Another boom. White streaks arc upward from a bright pinpoint and then shower down in wavy, glittering lines.

"Those look like the sad trees!" Zola says.

Meredith snickers. "Weeping willows?"

"Yes, those!" Zola says.

Another whistle and boom, followed by a giant, expanding sphere of red. "A fwower!" Bailey says.

Derek doesn't say much, but he watches the show with such a jubilant expression on his face, Meredith finds her attention torn between watching him and watching the fireworks. The next few booms present blue circles and green stars and red hearts for their viewing. Meredith's favorite, though, is the white kind with streaks that glitter like shooting stars as they spiral in all directions.

The kids continue their game, naming the shapes the fireworks make, a bit like they're identifying whimsical objects in the clouds. Though it takes him a few minutes to get the hang of it, even Derek joins in. The flower Bailey spotted, Derek says it's a tomato. And Zola's sad trees, to Derek, are Marie's hair. Marie is his speech therapist. She wears her long, straight, blond hair down to her shoulders most of the time, and Meredith can see the resemblance, somewhat, once he makes that connection for her. His description of the red hearts, though, is what floors her.

"Love," he says when one erupts. She doesn't miss the way his arms tighten around Bailey. Or the way he glances to her and then to Zola, warm affection in his eyes.

Love, she thinks. Her heart squeezes. Maybe, he's not so confused by the idea after all.

* * *

She sits in her bed after the fireworks on Monday night, alone, reading by the lamplight after everyone has gone to bed. She has an early shift tomorrow, but for some reason, she feels wired, so she's settled in to try and bore herself into slumber with a book she grabbed from the bookshelf in Derek's office. _For Whom the Bell Tolls,_ a novel by Hemingway. She hates _The Sun Also Rises_ with a fiery passion, but most of Hemingway's work, she finds yawn-worthy. The writing style is as dry as stale bread, and the subject matter doesn't interest her much. She's counting on this thing to get her snoring where ibuprofen PM has failed.

She's only halfway down the second page when she hears a soft knock at the door, but there's no accompanying pitiful warble of, "Mommy?" to identify which child needs her. She flips back the covers, gets out of bed, and walks to the door. She grasps the doorknob and pulls.

"What is …," she begins, only to trail off into silence, and the word "it" dies in her throat. For a moment, she can't think straight, and she has no idea what to say. Derek hasn't stepped foot anywhere near this room since day one.

But he's standing here, now, at the door, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. "Hello," he says, the word a hesitant offering that snaps her out of her surprised stupor.

"Did you need something?" she says, cautious, refusing to hope.

He licks his lips, and he shifts from foot to foot. "You say .…" He swallows. "Say. S-said. You want … me … sleep." He looks beyond her shoulder. "To sleep." He eyeballs the bed. "Sleep … here?"

Her jaw falls open, but she picks it back up with a clack. "Only if **you** want to." She won't hope. She won't hope. She won't hope.

His grip tightens on his cane. "Yes," he says.

She blinks, and her eyes prick as emotion swells up like a flash flood. "Really?" she says.

"I … try," he says. He grimaces. "I will. I will." A frustrated look. He can't seem to spit out the contraction that marries I and will, though it's clear that's what he's looking for in his mental filing cabinet.

She remembers what he said. Why he wanted his own space. Her heart pounds in her ears, and she squeezes his shoulder. God, she doesn't want to screw this up. She wants to take this olive branch and hammer it next to their Post-it or something, so it will never go poof on her.

"You don't have to talk," she says, and this seems to be the right thing to say, because his sudden relaxation is a palpable thing. He lets out a slow breath, and he stops trying to finish his sentence. "It's okay. Come in."

She steps out of the doorway to let him through, but he doesn't pass through, not right away. He stops next to her, hovering in her space, pressing close, and he dips his head to kiss her. Her hand finds his lower back, a lean cord of muscle, and she clutches at him through his shirt. When he pulls away, and she can stare into his eyes, endless pools of black in the light, she lets herself get lost. She leans up on her tiptoes and kisses him, too. A shorter one that draws out a soft, "Hmm." A soft sound of desire, exhaustion, and greeting, all in one syllable. She bites her lip as she pulls away, tasting him there on her skin, tasting the mint of his toothpaste.

He limps to his side of the bed, pulls back the blankets, rests his cane against the nightstand, and sits.

She swallows. She has so many things she wants to say in this moment – _t_ _hank you for trying this; I'm so glad you're here; I love you –_ but she keeps them in her head. He needs a space where he doesn't have to deal with the mental strain of figuring out words, and she'll freaking give it to him, even if it means she'll have to purchase some duct tape to stick on her face or something.

She stole one of his pillows in his protracted absence, and she gives it back to him. He settles next to her, leaving the lamp on his side of the bed off. He pulls up the covers to his chest and closes his eyes. She looks at her lamp, which is still on, and swallows. One of the disadvantages of not talking to him at all means she can't ask if the light bothers him, but .… She looks at him. His eyelids aren't fluttering. He's not moving. He seems … unbothered.

Still, she doesn't want to screw this up. She really doesn't want to screw this up. She puts Derek's old book on her nightstand, setting it down as softly as she can, and then she flips off her lamp, plunging the room into moonlit darkness.

She can tell the precise moment he falls asleep from the sound of him breathing, and she hates him for that a little. She always has. He falls asleep like it's effortless. Meanwhile, unless she's at the point where she's so exhausted she can't think straight, she tosses and turns and struggles for scraps of rest.

She lies on her back, staring at the ceiling, wondering how she'll ever fall asleep, but sleep turns into an easy thing, because she can hear him. His easy, soft, even breathing. The sound of him is like waves lapping on a beach, or the quiet patter of rain on the roof, soothing, peaceful. She's been missing it forever, that sound, that hushed movement of air, and she finds an enormous amount of comfort in it.

Her eyelids dip.

Derek's sleeping in their bed again, she thinks with a stretching smile, and it's her last conscious thought before dreams.

* * *

She wakes up in the dark with her face pressed against something warm and soft. Something rising and falling and rising and falling in a rhythmic, relaxing movement. The room is lit by moonlight, and when she parts her eyelids, she can see a plane of black cotton stretching out underneath her face.

Derek, she realizes. She's shifted over the course of the night, until her head was resting on his chest. Like she's dreamed about for over a year, and, though the moment is about eight weeks late, it's perfect to her all the same. She doesn't want to budge, doesn't ever want to move, but her alarm goes off, and she snaps into motion to shut it off before it bothers him too much.

He looks at her, dark eyes muzzy with sleep, and she smiles at him. "Go back to sleep," she whispers, and he does. His breathing evens out in moments.

She's midway through her shower when she realizes her snoring must not have bugged him, given how she woke up, pasted against his body. He doesn't wake again while she scrambles to get ready, not from the sounds of her moving things around in the bathroom, not even from the roar of the hairdryer through the closed door. He doesn't wake when she's shuffling through her drawers, or sifting through hanger after hanger, trying to find something to wear despite how dark it is. He doesn't wake when she packs her briefcase. He doesn't wake when she opens the bedroom door and tiptoes out to greet the nanny, either.

Derek Shepherd, she decides as she climbs into her Jeep, is **not** a light sleeper anymore.

* * *

"He slept in our bed," she says to Alex, unable to contain herself as she sucks down breakfast, which this morning, is coffee. Just coffee.

Alex chugs his soda and puts the empty can on his tray. "Congrats."

"Congrats?" she says. "Really, congrats is all you've got? He slept in our bed!"

"Who slept in our bed?" Maggie says as she sits down beside them.

"My bed," Meredith corrects her. "Not your bed."

"McDreamy slept there," Alex says.

"Derek slept in your bed last night?" Callie exclaims as she drops her tray onto the table. Orange juice and pancakes – a carbohydrate cornucopia. "Oh, my god. Details? I need to live vicariously through someone."

"Are we talking sleep sleep, or, you know .…" Maggie hunkers in her chair, looks around at the crowded, bustling cafeteria, and she whispers, "Sleep." She gives the word air quotes.

"No, we did **not** have sex," Meredith says. "He's nowhere **near** ready for sex."

"You think," Alex says.

"I know!" Meredith says.

"He's a guy," Alex says. "He's ready for sex."

"That is **so** sexist," Maggie says. "Just because he's got some more testosterone in his bloodstream doesn't mean-"

"Dude," Alex says with a shrug, "stereotypes become stereotypes for a reason."

"He's not some nymphomaniac teenage boy too hopped up on hormones to think straight," Meredith says. She takes a sip from her coffee cup and is saddened to discover it's empty. "He's almost fifty. And he has brain damage."

Alex leers. "Brain damage can affect libido, you know."

"Yeah," Meredith snaps. "And that effect's not necessarily in a positive direction." She sighs. "Anyway, we just slept. We didn't even spoon."

"Do you **wish** you'd spooned?" Maggie says.

Meredith thinks about it for a moment. Falling asleep to the sound of his breathing. His breathing that tells her he's very much alive. She thinks she might be re-addicted to that sound after only one night. She hopes he doesn't change his mind tonight. "I'm just happy he slept in the bed," she says. Happy. Relieved. Affirmed. "The rest will happen when he's ready."

"When do you think he will be?" Callie says, tone gentle. "Ready, I mean."

Meredith sighs. "I don't know. I don't know. I don't … have a lot of practice with this."

"You mean you don't have any," Alex interjects.

"Shut up," says Meredith. She puts her face in her hands. "So, what the hell do I do, now?"

Except, while they talk a good game, not a single one of her friends has an answer.

* * *

Her epiphany arrives on Laurel Lane, moments before the turnoff for their house. She's driving them through a verdant, thick cavern. She picked Derek up late from rehab, which was rescheduled to Tuesday since Monday was a holiday, and the almost-dark is made worse by the towering trees.

It's the cymbals. Meredith figures out the music problem via process of elimination. Something about the sound of cymbals is like nails on a chalkboard to Derek. Not the abbreviated, quiet chk chk chk chk chk of the hi-hat that establishes time – he seems fine with that – but the crashing noises, where the cymbals are allowed to reverberate, and when the chk chk chk chk chk expands to a protracted, aurally jarring ssss ssss ssss ssss ssss. Worse, even, because like when the kids are shrieking or whining, the sound causes him legitimate pain, not just irritation. His visceral reaction doesn't happen for every cymbal crash, but it does happen every time for the same cymbal crashes, which makes her think it's a precise pitch that causes the problem. There's no variation as far as that goes. He can listen to Lamb with mild discomfort. The Clash is a complete loss, though.

"Cymbal," Derek echoes, a frown on his face. His body sways as she turns onto their driveway, and the Jeep starts to jiggle as the shocks try to handle all the loose gravel.

Meredith nods. "Yeah. The ssss ssss ssss sound. And the psshhhh. Both are really high-pitched."

Which kind of sucks, but it explains why classical music is the only music genre that's drawn a smile from him, and the rest of the things she's played for him have all been one painful failure after another. It's nice to have the mystery solved, at least, though it makes her sad. Sad that he can't listen to a lot of music, not because he's decided he doesn't like it, but because his auditory cortex is malfunctioning. She wonders if this is something that will heal over time as uninjured parts of his brain take over for the messed up bits, or if it's something that will plague him forever.

"I'm sorry," she says.

He looks at her. "Why sorry?"

"That's a lot of things you can't listen to," she says as she pulls up to their house.

But he shrugs. "Still lots I can."

She can't help but smile at him. Derek Shepherd. Still a freaking optimist, even after everything.

* * *

He doesn't change his mind about sleeping in the master bedroom. He lies beside her for a second night in a row. They don't spoon, though.

* * *

"Stop!" Derek snaps, and Meredith flinches at his sudden outburst.

Zola halts mid-stride near a tall tree, and Bailey catches up to her. "Tag!" Bailey says, and he giggles. "You're it, you're it, you're it!"

"He cheated!" Zola whines. "He cheated! He didn't stop!" And then she elbows Bailey, who loses his footing and plops onto his ass. "Daddy said stop, so you gotta stop!"

"No push me!" Bailey snaps back. "Mommy, she push me!"

"Stop!" Derek shouts again, and both kids shut up. "Don't move."

At first, Meredith's not sure what's wrong. They've spent Thursday morning at the lake, catching newts and frogs and collecting leaves and bugs and things. She's covering for Alex on Saturday so he can go out on a date with Jo, and Alex took her Thursday shift in return. Derek's been irritable today. The kids have been hounding him for his attention since breakfast, and he doesn't have a good place to take a break without trudging all the way back to the house. They've already walked a long way. Trudging isn't much of an option.

"Derek, what's wrong?" she says, but he shrugs her off.

Derek limps to the kids and uses his cane to lever himself into a shaky crouch. Meredith follows. He drops his cane onto the wet ground, clutches Zola's shoulders, and turns her to face the tree she was bolting toward when this started. "You see that?" Derek says, pointing to the tree.

Meredith frowns. "See what?"

Bailey finds his footing and looks, too. Mud stains his overalls. "Yeah, what?" he echoes.

Derek points to a reddish bush thing at the base of the trunk. "That's bad," he says. "Don't touch that." He thinks for a stretching moment. "Leaves of three … let it be. Okay?"

"Why's it bad?" Zola says.

"Yeah, why bad?" Bailey adds.

Derek blinks at the question, and he thinks for a long moment, but it's clear that he's used up the extent of whatever he's remembered. And that's when it clicks in Meredith's head, and she realizes what she's looking at. She should know this stuff by rote, but she's never been much of a nature person, and it never occurs to her to keep an eye out for it. Zola had been about five feet from taking a dive into some poison oak, and Bailey hadn't been far behind her.

"Touching that plant will make you itch," Meredith says. "Some people are really allergic, and it makes them stop breathing."

Zola and Bailey stare at the bush. "Three leaves is bad?" Zola says.

Derek nods. "Very bad."

"Thanks," Meredith says in Derek's ear as the kids run ahead down the path. Her heart squeezes as she kisses him on the cheek. Even hurt, he can still keep the kids safe, and she's convinced, in this moment, he can be a dad again, not just in name, but in function. It might take a while, but they'll get there, she **knows** it, and that's amazing. She continues, "I didn't see that. How did you remember that?"

He shrugs. "I don't know."

He wraps his arm over her shoulder. He's hobbling a little, and she slows her pace, so she can enjoy the embrace, and he can keep up without struggling. She leans up on her tiptoes to kiss him, and he grins. He's been home for two months, and sometimes, she finds it hard to believe he was ever gone.

In the life of Meredith Grey, Derek Shepherd just … fits.

* * *

On the fourth night, he notices the Post-it hanging on the wall over their bed.

"What is this?" he says, pointing to the frame.

"Those are our wedding vows," she says, and before he can ask what wedding vows are, she clarifies, "Promises we made to each other."

"Hmm," he says. "What did we promised?"

She pulls the frame down from the wall and reads it to him. He remembers with his hands, sometimes, so she frees the little blue Post-it from the frame and gives it to him to hold. He runs his fingers over the paper, his touch a gentle rustle against the soft surface. At first he has no expression but curiosity, but then his crow's feet crinkle, and his lips turn up, and he raises a hand to rub at his eyes like he thinks they might be leaking.

Meredith swallows. Her chest tightens. "Do you remember the Post-it?"

He stares at the paper for a long, stretching moment. "I writed this," he says.

"You did," she says, nodding. "You did write it."

And then she watches Derek, who can't read anything more complicated than Dick and Jane right now, let alone illegible doctor scrawl, touch the place where he signed his name. "This is me," he says, not a question. "My name."

"Yeah," she says. "It is."

"And you," he continues, as his gaze shifts to her signature, which is on the line above his. His touch has a reverential quality as he traces her handwriting with his index finger. "Your name."

"Yeah," she repeats. She wipes her eyes. "It is."

Of all the memories he's managed to keep, she thinks this is the one she'll cherish most.

* * *

On Saturday, when Meredith does the end-of-the-night tally on stars, she notices Derek has none in his first row. She tries to remember the last time she gave him a magnet, but she can't. She knows he finished a row last week at some point, which means … the kids have gone more than seven days without missing a pause. She resists the urge to pump her fist. It's taken them about four weeks to work out all the kinks, but Derek and the kids are coexisting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Notes:**

Thanks for the feedback everybody!

Just to re-emphasize - if you've read the 19 months section of Recover, you already know the general outline of how this story goes. This story focuses a lot more on emotional intimacy and rebuilding MerDer from the ground up than it does physical gratification - I wanted to give them a real ending and sendoff, something Shonda never allowed them. Though there are several explicit scenes, I think those of you expecting porny goodness on the order of LST will be very disappointed. MerDer are taking it slow, this time. Baby steps. No sudden moves.

I hope that doesn't scare anybody off, but it's come up enough in feedback and on Twitter that I felt the need to mention it to you.

* * *

 **Week nine.**

Derek's been sleeping in the same bed with her for a week on the nose when something yanks Meredith from dreaming to consciousness like a bungee cord hitting the end of its elastic give. She has less than a nanosecond of muzzy, foggy, "Whaaa?" before the cord snaps, and the whiplash brings her back to conscious thought. Zola's crying on the other side of the door. Not crying. Wailing. It's the kind of abject distress that jams knives through a mother's heart.

Meredith snaps upright, flips the covers back, and stumbles toward the door, still disoriented by the sudden shift from dreams to waking. She flings open the door, but before she can even react, Zola wraps around Meredith's leg with a monkey grip, and her daughter's sucking, horrible, heart-rending sobs ricochet everywhere like bullet spray.

"Zola, what on earth's the matter?" Meredith says, duck-walking out of the room and closing the door behind her. The last thing she needs beyond her daughter flipping out is Derek flipping out, too, and this is just the kind of high-pitched noise that seems to cause him problems. She reaches down, peels Zola from her leg, and lifts. Zola resettles, pressing her wet face into Meredith's neck. She thinks she hears a Daddy mixed in with the upset warbling, but that's about the only word she can identify in the grieving, inarticulate mess.

"What's the matter, Zozo?" Meredith repeats. She stands in the dark in the hallway outside her bedroom, rubbing Zola's back. "Shh," she says, because she can't think of anything better to say right now, and hearing her daughter in this kind of misery makes her insides twist. "Shh; it's okay." She rocks back and forth, Zola resting on her hip. "Can you tell Mommy what's wrong? Did you have a bad dream?"

"He got a brain cut," Zola wails. "He got a brain cut, and now he's gone again. Daddy's gone. I want Daddy."

Meredith swallows, heart sinking as she starts to get an inkling of what's happened. "Daddy's fine, Zozo," she says. Zola must have had a bad dream, gone to find Derek, and discovered his room empty. "Daddy's fine. He's just sleeping with Mommy now instead of by himself. Remember we used to sleep in the same bedroom before he got hurt?"

"I want Daddy," Zola says, inconsolable. "Please, I want Daddy."

Meredith bites her lip, turning back to the master bedroom's shut door. She can't take Zola to Derek like this, not when she's wailing and whining and sniveling. Derek doesn't do well with this crap when he's awake, let alone when he's yanked out of a sound sleep. "Can you calm down a little, Zozo? If you can calm down, I'll get you Daddy. Remember how noises hurt him?"

A sniffle. Another sniffle. Like Zola's trying to bulldoze her upset. But then she falls apart again. "I want Daddy. I want Daddy. Please, I want Daddy."

Then Bailey calls, "Mommy?" in a sleepy voice from down the hall, because Zola's wailing must have woken him up, and everything is sliding off a cliff and into chaos. The master bedroom door opens. Derek exits the bedroom, leaning on his cane. He's squinting. Well, wincing, cringing, not squinting.

"What … wrong?" he says, looking like he wants to claw out his ears.

"Daddy," Zola bleats at him. "Daddy. Daddy." She wriggles in Meredith's arms. "I want Daddy."

"Mommy!" Bailey calls.

Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap on a freaking stick. She glances at Derek. He's not comfortable, but he's not freaking out, and maybe Zola will calm the hell down if Meredith puts him to work as a dad. All he has to do is stand there and be not dead for a few minutes, so Zola can see he's not missing or hurt. Meredith takes a chance. "Derek, can you hold Zola for a second? I need to check Bailey."

Zola's racket is deafening, and Derek takes a while to understand what Meredith's said. The seconds stretch into eternity. Meredith wants to scream. But he shifts his cane to his bad hand, and he reaches out with his left. The child transfer is an awkward one, but as soon as Derek's got a steady grip on their daughter, Meredith bounds down the hall toward Bailey's room. The last thing she needs is two screaming children. One is enough.

Luckily, Bailey is still half asleep, and all it takes is visual confirmation that Mommy is here, and he drifts off again in seconds. As soon as he settles, she dashes back toward the master bedroom, hoping she won't find Derek and Zola both freaking out in a spastic heap on the floor in the hallway or something.

She doesn't. They're not in the hallway anymore, and she stops dead when she enters the master bedroom and sees them.

The lamp on Derek's side of the bed glows against the blackness, a soft beacon, and Derek's holding a crying Zola in his arms. How he managed to walk from the hallway to the bed with a kid holding his strong hand hostage and his cane stuck in his weak one, she'll never know, but he did. Between his improving grip, and his improving stride, he did manage through some herculean expenditure. And, now, he sits on the mattress on his side of the bed. Zola is pasted to his chest, sobbing and sniffling, and he rubs her back in slow, circular strokes with the flat of his palm while he stares out the window at nothing.

"Shh," he says in a soft, soothing rumble. "I'm not gone. You have bad dream." The Voice, Meredith thinks. The tone he used before the accident with hysterical people to calm them down. Almost foolproof, particularly with women. He's used it on Meredith any number of times. And in that moment, Meredith's eyes prick, because in that moment, he's Derek, whole and healed, and he's rocking the dad thing like Jagger.

She plods back to the bed, to his side of the mattress, sits down next to him, and throws her arms around both of them, adding to the Zola sandwich. "It's okay, Zozo," she says. "We're both here, and we're not going anywhere, okay?"

Derek stares at Meredith over the top of Zola's head. His expression is … bewildered to say the least. Pained still, too, but less so now that Zola's freakout has relaxed to a more reasonable decibel level. His eyes are black and wide, and he seems to be projecting at her, _What the hell do I do?_

But what he's doing is perfect already, so she doesn't offer additional guidance that might confuse him, not when it's clear to her he's already suffering from all the stimuli bombarding him. She doesn't want to ruin this moment. What she wants is to take it, put it in a bottle, and save it like Old Derek would save a great bottle of scotch.

"You got a brain cut," Zola warbles.

Derek thinks for few seconds. "Not tonight." He swallows. He thinks more. "You have bad dream." Another long pause – this one so long, at first, that Meredith doesn't think it's a pause, but rather the end of what he's planning to say. But he nudges her with his left shoulder. She frowns, but scoots back a little, giving him some space. Then he grips Zola's waist and stands her up so her feet are resting on his thighs. He takes her right hand in his left, and he guides her to the left side of his head. His mouth opens and closes as he searches for a word. A moment passes. He starts, and he stops with a syllable strangled to death in his throat. He swallows. "F-feel," he manages, and Meredith gets what he's doing for the first time. Her jaw drops, but she doesn't speak, doesn't dare to interrupt the moment. "Feel … this … dent?"

Zola presses her fingers into his curly hair and nods, sniffling. "Yes."

"It heals," he says. A wince. "Heals. Heals. H-Healed." His eyes close as Zola traces the c-shaped scar on his scalp, the only physical remnant of his craniotomies, the one that failed to save him from permanent harm, and the one that tried to clean up the mess left behind by the first one. "It not new. You have … had. Had bad dream."

"This is the brain cut?" Zola says. Her pulsing tears slow to a trickle, leaving wet tracks behind.

Derek licks his lips. "This … head cut." A long pause. "Brain cut hap … happen … underneath."

"But if this part heals, why can't your brain heal?" she says.

His eyes water. He blinks. Meredith doesn't miss the streak glistening on his cheek, though, in the dim light, she does miss the tear itself. "I wish it heal," he says, his voice a rough rasp. _I wish I_ _'m_ _same,_ he's said so many times, and a lump forms in Meredith's throat. He looks at Zola. "Brain … not same."

Zola sits back down his lap. She rubs her eyes and yawns. "I want to be a surgeoner like Mommy when I grow up, so I can fix it."

Derek blinks. "… What?"

Meredith wipes her eyes. She thinks if she speaks, she might break, but she scoots closer again, now that Derek's demonstration is finished, and she wraps her arms around both of them. "She means surgeon," Meredith says hoarsely. She kisses his shoulder through his shirt. "She wants to be a brain surgeon." _Like you_ , Meredith doesn't say, because her throat hurts too much to try.

"Oh," Derek says.

They sit like that for a long moment.

"Can I sleep here tonight?" Zola says, her tone pitiful. "Please, can I?"

Meredith swallows. She's not sure how Derek will take that request, not when he's already had his brain raked raw tonight by a screaming child and then pushed himself through that ugh feeling to be a dad, anyway. Derek looks at her, a blank expression that doesn't say which way he leans on this decision.

"If Daddy doesn't mind," Meredith says, staring back at him, and to make sure he doesn't think this is her pressuring him into saying yes, she adds, "Just say no if it's bad." If he says no, she'll sleep in Zola's room on the floor to keep the peace.

But he doesn't say no. At first she thinks he might be too fried to answer at **all**. But his mouth moves, and she waits while he manages to work himself up to saying, "Yes, but please, quiet. Please." She doesn't miss the desperation in his tone.

"I'll be quiet!" Zola swears, the words solemn and serious. "I don't want your brain to hurt."

His body twitches with what looks like a silent laugh, but he says nothing.

Meredith leans forward, kisses him on the cheek, and then gets up to head back to her side of the bed. She gives Zola one of her pillows. Zola settles in the middle of the bed, sandwiched between both Mom and Dad, and then drifts off in seconds, before Derek even flips off his light.

* * *

Derek's still in their bedroom with the door shut when Meredith gets home from work in the early evening. When she checks on him, she finds him sprawled in their bed, still asleep. From the bottle on his nightstand, she can tell he's taken codeine, but she doesn't think he's having another migraine, since the shades aren't drawn, and he's wearing neither earplugs nor his sleep mask. She doesn't want to break the silence, doesn't ever want him to change his mind about sleeping in their bed, so she leaves him alone to rest and recuperate without interference.

He's showing signs of life by the time she's getting ready for bed, and when she sinks into the mattress beside him, he mumbles, "Hello," though his eyes aren't open.

She finds herself biting down on her response until she remembers he spoke first. He initiated conversation. Not her. "Hi," she says. She reaches for him. Splays her palm against his back and rubs him from neck to coccyx. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," he says. A long silence follows, and Meredith thinks he might be done with the talking thing already. "I'm sorry."

She frowns. "Sorry for what?"

"I did it wrong," he says.

"Did what wrong?" she says, frown deepening.

"When I … tried to fix Zo," he says. "Last night."

For a moment, she can't think of anything to say. She slides under the covers, scooting next to him.

She wraps her arm over his waist. "You did everything right, Derek. Everything."

"I did?"

"Yes!" Meredith says. "What makes you think you did it wrong?"

He swallows. "She keeped crying so long."

Meredith sighs. "She was just upset, Derek. Sometimes, it takes a while to calm her down."

"I scared her."

She kisses him. "Your situation scared her, **you** didn't scare her. You did a great job with her."

"Oh," he says.

She swallows. She reaches for him, but then draws back, nervous. "Derek," she says, "May I … touch you?"

His eyes open to slivers. "Touch … where?" he says, his tone wary.

She puts her palm in the air next to his face. "Here," she says.

He thinks for a moment. "Yes."

She lowers her palm to his skin, and pushes her fingers back through his hair. She finds the c-shaped scar where Derek showed Zola it was the night before. She's never touched this. Touched him here. His skull is uneven, and the scar is a large runnel in not just flesh, but bone. Her fingers brush the long ravine from tip to tip, and back again.

For a brief moment, anger wells. Anger at all of this aftermath. None of it had to happen if there'd been a competent doctor available when Derek needed help. But her fury spikes in moments and dissipates into acceptance. This is the Derek she gets, now. There's no rewind. And no matter what, she loves him. And she loves that, though she doesn't get a rewind, at least she gets to go forward. She doesn't know what she would do if there were no forward, either.

"I love you," she says.

"Hmm," he rumbles, and he pushes into her hand a little.

"Does that feel good?" she says.

He looks at her through lowered eyelashes that speak of drunken stupor. "Yes." She keeps petting that spot – the c-shaped scar. He sighs, relaxed. "I know how Zo feels," he murmurs. "I have bad dreams, too."

She bites her lip, and a pit forms in her stomach. "What about?"

"Everyone talk, but I don't understand." He rolls onto his side to face her, and she withdraws her hand from his hair. He matches her gesture, pushing his fingers into her hair. "I have remember … of you. Memory. Memory of you. I talked to you." He swallows. "I miss knowing how."

"We'll get back there," she says, squeezing his shoulder. "We will, Derek. We're there, now. You don't need to know every word to tell me things."

"It … frustrates me."

She brushes through his hair with her fingertips. "Try me. If you get frustrated, we can stop."

He thinks for a moment. A blush mottles across his face. She reaches toward him to stroke him shoulder to elbow. To encourage him.

"I like … kiss," he says after almost two minutes. "Kissing. I like that."

She grins. "Well, that's good. I like kissing you, too."

"It makes me feel .…" His mouth opens and closes, and he struggles for the longest stretch of time, but he sighs and gives up. "I don't know word, Meredith. I don't know .…"

She thinks for a long moment about what needs to be said, here. Maybe, he needs to hear how she describes it. Maybe, that would help.

"Kissing you makes everything inside me feel tight," she says.

"Tight?" he says.

"Umm, not relaxed. Stressed, but not in a bad way."

"Okay."

"I get hot. I breathe faster," she says. He nods. "It's like … my body is so happy with what's happening that it wants me to do more of it, but I'm not doing it."

He takes a long time, parsing that, thinking about that. But he's slept for like sixteen hours, and this is the best time for a conversation like this, even though it's at night. "Yes," he says. "I feel that."

Meredith smiles. "That's called desire. Frustration and pleasure in a blender."

"Blender?"

"A machine that mixes different things together. We have one in the kitchen in one of the cabinets."

"Okay."

"Is that what you feel?" she says. "Desire?"

He swallows. "Yes."

"I desire you," she says. "You desire me?"

He nods.

"I'm not saying we should do it right now, but that's what leads to sex."

"I want sex," he says, but it's not quite a statement.

"That's what your body is trying to say," Meredith says. "But your body and your brain don't always agree. It's okay to wait until they do."

"Why don't they agree?"

She stares into his eyes. "Because sex is the most intimate thing you can do with someone else."

"Intimate?"

"Um," she says, thinking. Even with all this practice, sometimes his requests for explanations trip her up. Intimate is intimate to her. She can't recall ever breaking it down. "Um, personal. Close. You'd be putting part of yourself inside of me."

He nods. Doesn't look away. "I want them to agree."

She smiles. Hearing him say that point blank is a balm. He wants her. He wants her; he just doesn't know how to handle that right now. "We'll get there," she says. "Just do what's comfortable."

He inches closer. He searches her with his gaze. His right hand comes to rest on her hip, and his fingers close around her. His grip is still weak, but much better than before. He scoots closer again, until he's mashed right up against her. "This is comfortable," he says, and he presses his lips to hers.

She feels desire in her body like fireworks.

* * *

"You should come over next Friday," Callie says as she stands beside Meredith, staring at a set of MRI films.

The patient is a mess. She lives alone and fell down her stairs. The good news is that the films reveal Meredith has nothing to fix – there's no internal bleeding. The bad news is that the poor woman lay on the floor with a dislocated shoulder and a broken leg, screaming for help, for over a day. Callie will have more than enough to fix by herself.

"Come over?" Meredith says, lowering the film from the light. "Like .…"

Callie smiles. "For dinner! Bring Derek. Bring the kids. Sofia will be there – she would love some playmates."

Meredith bites her lip. She's never brought Derek anywhere. Not to a place where she doesn't have complete control of the social situation. "Just us?" Meredith says.

"Well, I was thinking more along the lines of a dinner **party** dinner," Callie says.

"So, more than just us," Meredith says.

"Yes," Callie says. "Why, is that a problem?"

A dinner party would be a lot of stimuli for him. He has trouble with more than one or two things happening at once, and she can't expect an entire dinner party to pause while he catches up if he gets overwhelmed. "I don't know if Derek's ready for something like that," Meredith says.

Callie shrugs. "You could ask him if he wants to try."

"Callie, you don't understand; he's .…" Meredith swallows. Callie hasn't been able to visit Derek since he was transferred out of Seattle Grace, not for lack of desire, but for lack of time, so she has no frame of reference for Derek's capabilities other than what Meredith tells her. Meredith gets that. With Arizona gone to work at another hospital in Portland, Callie is a single mother, and it's hard to find time for things outside of work other than being a mom, even with help. "I could ask him, yes, but I don't think he's capable of making an informed decision about something like that."

"Why not?" Callie says.

Meredith sighs. "I've been trying to get him out more, but he's been so isolated. I think something with a lot of noisy people would overwhelm him, and I don't want him to get too stressed."

"Oh," Callie says. She thinks for a moment. "What if I promised something small-ish? Just you guys, me, Sofia, Miranda, Ben, Tuck, Maggie, and maybe Richard and Catherine. We can help get his feet wet again in a friendly setting."

"Okay," Meredith says. "Okay, I'll see if he wants to try, but … please … **please** keep it low-key."

Callie beams. "Cross my heart," she says, drawing an x over the breast pocket of her white coat.

* * *

That evening, when Meredith picks Derek up from rehab, she sees something she's not used to seeing after his appointments. A smile. A smile on Derek's face. As he steps through the front doors of the building to walk out to the car, he's beaming like a 120 watt light bulb, and she can't help but smile just watching him. His pleasure is infectious.

At first, the sight of him coming down the long walk doesn't register as unusual, other than his smile, other than the fact that he's walking only about half as fast as he does in normal circumstances, but then she sees what's different. He's carrying his cane. Carrying, not using. And he limps, yes, but no more than he does with the cane taking his weight.

He makes it about three-quarters of the way down the front walk before he has to put the cane's foot on the ground and use it to help him balance, because he's getting too fatigued. Three-quarters of the way. That's at least a hundred feet, she thinks. Maybe, more.

"My walk is better," he says as he climbs into the car, panting.

Meredith grins at him. "I saw! That's so great!"

She glances down at his iPod, intending to pick something new for them to try. She avoids the rock genres, since those are almost all infested with rampant cymbal usage, and she doesn't want to play Russian roulette with Derek's brain when he's in such a good mood right now. She heads into the New Age section, more of Derek's relaxing, I'm-in-a-stressful-surgery music, and scrolls through all the artists there. She picks a name at random. The soft plinking of a piano fills the speakers, and she nods at her choice. From their experimentation these past few weeks, she's gotten a pretty good feel for what he'll like, what he'll tolerate, what he'll hate, and what he'll suffer from. Derek's likely to enjoy this one. He seems to be most appreciative of music that's not beat-oriented.

As soon as Derek settles and clips his seatbelt, she pulls away from the curb.

"Callie invited us to dinner next week," Meredith says. "Do you remember Callie?"

Derek thinks for a moment. "No," he says.

Meredith nods. She expected as much. When Callie last visited Derek, he was awake, and moving, and responding to simple commands, but from what Derek's said, he remembers nothing of that twilight period between waking up after the accident and when he relearned to speak.

"She's a friend," Meredith says. "You knew her from work." She glances at him, trying to gauge his reaction. He seems parked in neutral. Not upset. Not happy, either.

"Okay," he says.

"Do you remember Miranda?" Meredith says. "Or Richard? They'd be there, too, most likely."

"I … remember," he says. Miranda came to visit him in rehab several times. So did Richard. "They … they are … they are … they're my friends?" A question more than a statement, which makes Meredith's heart hurt.

Nobody's come to see him since he came home other than Amelia. Maggie, too, but Maggie came more for Meredith than for Derek. And in this moment, this all feels wrong. All of this. Derek was so affable. So gregarious. He made friends with the entire hospital staff. He used to be able to charm even the most prickly person. Well, not Cristina. Not Ellis. But **most** prickly people.

"Do you want to see them all?" Meredith says. "Your friends?" She grips the steering wheel, twisting her fingers around it.

"Did we did this before?" he says.

"Go to dinner things?" Meredith says. "Not a ton, but yes." When he doesn't answer right away, she feels compelled to add, "You can say no, Derek. It's okay to say no. Say no if it's bad."

He thinks for a long moment, staring out at the passing scenery. "Okay."

"Okay, you want to go?" she says. Or was he confirming that he knew it was okay to say no?

He licks his lips. "Yes, I try. I try. I .…" He thinks. "I will. I'll try."

She tears her eyes from the road to give him a warm smile. She hopes this goes well. She hopes he enjoys himself. She wants Derek to have some friends again.

* * *

When Meredith comes home on Thursday evening, she's greeted at the door by Melody, whose green eyes sparkle under the front porch light. "Hey-" Meredith has a chance to say before Melody cuts her off with an index finger to her lips, the universal sign for shh. Meredith takes the cue and drops her voice to a whisper when she adds, "What's up?"

Melody steps out onto the stoop, grinning as she closes the door behind her. "Nobody," the nanny says.

"Huh?" Meredith says.

"You'll see," Melody says, shifting her purse strap from one shoulder to the other. "Everything went fine today; nothing unexpected. Derek seems much better, now that you've been taking him out, by the way." And kissing him a lot, Melody doesn't say. Meredith's not sure if Melody knows about the kissing-him-a-lot part.

"Really?" Meredith says.

"Yes," Melody says. "He's not sleeping as late anymore, and he's more chipper."

Relief makes Meredith deflate. This is something she's been keeping an eye on for weeks. His mood. Weeks ago, he was teetering on the edge of depression. But she can't watch him while she's at work, and while he's seemed better on the weekends and in the evenings, she's been wondering if his happier behavior has been more about the fact that she's home than the fact that he's feeling better, overall.

"I'm so glad," she says.

Melody nods. She brushes a stray lock of brown frizz out of her face. "Keep it up," she says. "See you tomorrow!"

Meredith closes the door behind Melody, careful not to slam it. So, what on earth did Melody mean, nobody's up? She- A smile stretches across her face when she gets an inkling. She sees Derek's curly head of hair over the back of the sofa, but no telltale chatter of playing children. She tiptoes closer. The room lies in deep shadow, save for the light of the television, which is turned on and playing a _My Little Pony_ episode at low volume.

Derek's eyes are closed when she reaches the sofa, but then he turns his head, and he looks at her, squinting through his eyelashes at her. "Hello," he says.

Zola's draped like a blanket against him. Her little knees straddle his waist, and her left arm hangs down at his side. With her right hand, she grips a tent of his maroon-colored t-shirt like a security blanket, though her grip has loosened in slumber. Her cheek is pressed against his chest, and she's drooling on his shirt. Bailey lies on his side beside them, curled up like a cat, and he's using Derek's thigh as a pillow. Another spot of drool spreads on Derek's jeans.

"Hi," Meredith says, smiling.

"They fall … fall .…" He pauses. "F-falled asleep."

"I can see that," she says. Her smile hurts. Her smile hurts her freaking face, it's so big.

He tries to look at the television, but he squints like it causes him pain, and he looks away. The remote lies on the coffee table, inches from his knees, but with the kids in the way, he couldn't have reached it. With his eyes closed, Melody might have assumed he fell asleep, too. Meredith thinks he's at the point in the day where mental fatigue kicks in, and he can't process things as well. Lights. Noise. He can't watch television at night on days when he's tired. She grabs the remote for him and flicks off the television, and then she flips on the lamp on the end table to its lowest setting, a dim forty watts that shouldn't bother him too much.

"Want to help me put them to bed?" Meredith says.

"Me?" Derek says, like he's surprised.

She's been viewing Derek like a recuperating patient, almost, trying to keep the stress out of his environment by making it clear that she doesn't have expectations for him. Doesn't have a list of things she wants him to be getting done during the day other than healing. As a result, the days he doesn't spend in rehab, he's been more of a playmate for the kids than anything else. She's been doing all the parenting, but she thinks, maybe, in light of how he's responding to getting out more, doing more things, in light of how well he handled Zola's freakout earlier in the week, he might thrive with a bit more purpose in his life.

Not a ton, yet, but a bit.

The conclusion she made last week, the conclusion that he can be a dad again, not just in name but in function, rings in her head like a bell.

"Sure," she says. She slips her arms underneath Bailey's tiny frame and scoops him into her arms. If Zola were awake, Meredith would add to Derek's instructions, like telling him to find Zola a nightgown to wear and help her put it on, but Zola's out, and from the look of her eyes moving underneath her eyelids, dreaming. There's no need to disturb her from a sound sleep to force her into different clothes. Given that, she settles on telling Derek, "Just take Zola to her room, pull off her shoes, make sure she's got Chip – that's the lion – and tuck her into bed, okay?"

He stares at her, and his lips move, like he's mouthing the words she's said to him. He takes a long time to make sense of her request, and she regrets giving him such a run-on imperative. She resists the urge to add more words to the jumble in an attempt to clarify, because he doesn't ask her a question, yet. Doesn't ask her a question at all. Instead, he works his way through her sentence, phrase by phrase, and he says, "… Okay," when he reaches the end.

She grins. "Okay," she confirms with a nod.

At first, she thinks he might have trouble getting up from the sofa, but he picks up his cane with his weak hand, grips Zola with his strong hand, leans forward, and levers himself into a standing position. The maneuver isn't the most graceful she's ever seen, but the fact that he's moving so well, the fact that he's able to carry something heavy like a kid, support himself with his cane in his weak hand, and still walk, even at the end of the day when he's at his most fatigued, makes his lack of grace seem like an infinitesimal flaw in a larger gift.

Meredith takes Bailey to his bedroom and deposits him in his bed. She kisses him on the forehead and tucks him in. He doesn't wake at all, not through the whole process, and she wonders what on earth the kids did today that wore them out so much.

When she's finished, Derek hasn't come back to the living room, so she goes to check on him, to make sure she hasn't given him something too complicated to do. She doesn't think putting a small person in a bed is too complicated, but .… Zola's soft voice carries into the hallway, and Meredith stops to listen.

"Did the hopspital people tuck you in at night?" Zola asks in a thick voice that says she's still half asleep.

A long pause follows. "Yes," Derek says.

"Just like me?" Zola says.

"No," he says. A pause follows. Meredith thinks she hears him kiss her, but the sound is so quiet she can't be certain. "You are special."

"G'night, Daddy."

"Goodnight," he replies.

Meredith grins and tiptoes back to the living room. She thinks she's made a good choice. Encouraging him to be a dad again. Even just for small things.

* * *

Amelia visits on Saturday afternoon for coffee. Both Meredith and Derek have already eaten, but Amelia was hungry enough on arrival to have an audibly rumbling stomach, and Derek wouldn't take no for an answer when he asked Amelia if she wanted something to eat. He's in the kitchen fixing something quick for her. Meanwhile, the kids play in the sand pit outside, and Meredith and Amelia sit on the deck in reclining lawn chairs, enjoying the expansive view.

Wispy cirrus clouds streak the cerulean sky. The sun is a bright jewel, and the breeze is balmy. The view on the cliff is clear, and Meredith can see for miles into the verdant green valley below.

"God, it's pretty out here," Amelia says. "I forget how pretty, sometimes."

Meredith grins as she watches Zola create a second guard tower for her sprawling castle in the sand pit. Bailey sits beside Zola, making vrrrrrrm noises as he pushes his toy dump truck around. He mows over one of Zola's sand edifices, and she exclaims, "Hey!" in an affronted tone.

"Bailey, why don't you move to the other side of the box," Meredith suggests.

Bailey sighs, but follows the suggestion, and a full-blown sibling war is averted as the space between him and Zola widens to about ten feet.

"You've got a pretty awesome view, yourself," Meredith says, focusing back on the conversation at hand. Amelia's balcony looks out on Puget Sound and has a sprawling view of the Seattle skyline. "How's that going, anyway?"

"What? Living with Owen?"

Meredith nods. "That and settling in."

"I like being in the city again," Amelia says. She sighs. "I guess I'm just a city girl at heart. I'm not like Derek was with his 'space,'" she says, putting the word space in air quotes. "I need civilization, as pretty as this is here. And … it's nice. Having someone again. It's … good." She looks at Meredith and grins. "Owen and I are good."

"Is," Meredith says. "I'm really glad you're good, though."

Amelia raises her eyebrows as she takes a sip from her coffee. "Huh?"

"You said _was_ ," Meredith says. "Derek **is**."

Amelia gives Meredith a ghost of a smile that doesn't meet her eyes. "Oh," she says. "Yeah."

The sad disbelief in Amelia's tone makes Meredith's heart twist. "He still likes space," she says, trying to offer Amelia something more solid to grab onto. "He takes a walk around the lake almost every day he doesn't have rehab."

"Does he?" Amelia says.

The door behind them slides open, and Derek steps out with a plate, which he's clutching in his right hand, before Meredith can answer Amelia. "Here is lunch," he says to his sister.

"Thank you," she says.

Meredith grins as she watches him lean forward to hand the plate to Amelia. He's getting so much better with that grip. He collapses into the chair between Amelia and Meredith with a sigh. He hooks his cane over the arm of the recliner, and Meredith doesn't miss the way his whole body seems to relax as he stares at the view. The bit about loving space … definitely a present tense thing.

Amelia looks down at her plate, and her jaw drops. "You cut the crusts off my sandwich."

Derek frowns. "This is wrong thing?"

"No!" Amelia says. "No, it's just … why did you do that?"

"I thought this … how … like?"

"You remember that?" she says, her voice small.

Derek gives his sister an easy smile. "Yes, Amy, I remember."

Amelia swallows, and her eyes water like they're stuck in a flash flood. She rushes to scrub at her face with her hands. "Oh, my god."

Meredith frowns at the exchange. "I must be missing something."

"When I was a kid, he'd make my lunches .… He always cut the crusts off for me."

"She like peanut … peanut .… P … p-p." Derek stops for a moment to stare at the sky while he thinks. A flock of sparrows zips overhead and dips into the valley below. A syllable gets stuck in his throat, and he looks back at Amelia with a helpless expression. "I can't say this."

"Peanut butter?" Meredith offers.

He nods. "Yes. She like with … honey, not-"

"Jelly, oh, my god, Derek," Amelia says. "I can't believe you remember that. I … I didn't think you remembered anything."

He takes a moment to recover from the jarring interruption, but he manages. "I do," he says. "Some."

"What else?" Amelia says, her tone almost begging. "Is there anything else?"

Derek blinks. "I .…" His voice trails away to silence. He stares into space, and Meredith can't tell if he's thinking or stuck.

"It's okay if there's nothing else," Amelia says. "I'm just .… I'm so glad you remember, even just a little." She looks to Meredith with an amazed expression. Sort of a _holy-shit-did-you-know-about-this?_

Meredith smiles as she peers back at her sister-in-law. The first few hints Meredith ever received that he might remember some things occurred in the last three months before his release, when Amelia was busy moving and wasn't around as much. And even those … just hints. Like his first obtuse mention that he knew he wasn't like he used to be. _I know. Not …. Not …. Not same_. And like when he recognized a patient chart the on-staff neurologist was carrying. _I … did this,_ he said. Wispy little indications that he might remember fragments.

Those nondescript clues were few and far between, though, and little more than a month ago, Meredith would have agreed that past tense applies to Old Derek. That, save for a few bits of flotsam, the person he used to be died on impact. But … he's not past tense. He's **not**. Not in totality like she thought. Since the inception of pause, Derek hasn't been spending every waking moment drowning in a crush of stress. As a result, he's popped open like a shucked oyster, and she's found a few little pieces of who he was like pearls for the taking.

He still likes his space, and ferryboats, and single malt scotch, and he still remembers their Post-it and skinny dipping with her in the lake. He still has his hmms and his sense of humor. That doesn't sound like much, put in a list like that, but seven pearls to someone who had none before is opulence, and Meredith is glad Amelia's finding her own pearls, now, too, rare as they are.

"I … read," he says, pulling Meredith from her musing. "I read you for bed." He pauses, mouth working while he figures out his words. "A book with … with lion?" He gives Amelia a questioning look.

Amelia frowns, and the moments stretch.

Derek sighs. "This was not you?"

"I …," Amelia begins, and then her face lights up with recognition. " _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ _!_ " she says, bouncing in her chair. "Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. You read that to me like five times. I wouldn't let you pick anything else to read me for months. You'd give me this hefty put-upon sigh, and you'd roll your eyes, but you read it for me every night. I loved-"

"Pause," Derek blurts, wincing, and Amelia's word-mobile skids to a halt. Her lips form a tiny, surprised oh shape, and she gives him an apologetic look. He closes his eyes, and he thinks, and thinks, and thinks, and thinks. Amelia's babble is too much for him to parse, though, and he swallows. "I don't understand."

"I'm so sorry!" Amelia says. She gives him a sheepish grimace. "Words got away from me a bit."

"Please … less?" he says.

" _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_. That was the book."

Derek frowns. "Wardrobe?"

"You keep your clothes in it," Meredith says. "Like a closet."

"Oh," he says. He shifts his gaze back to Amelia. "The witch," he says. "She scare you."

"That's **so** amazing," Amelia says, tears falling in earnest, now. Her sniffles fill the air.

Derek's lip twitches like he wants to smile. "I like lion."

Amelia grins. "Aslan? Of **course** you'd be president of the martyr's fan club."

"What?" Derek says, eyebrows knitting as he frowns.

Amelia reaches for his forearm and gives him a squeeze. "Never mind. Bad joke."

"Oh," he says.

Meredith bites her lip, thinking. "Is that book why you like lions?"

Derek's gaze shifts to her, and he stares at her for a long moment, frown deepening. He doesn't seem to have an answer for her. "I … like lions," is all he says, confusion flickering in his gaze.

Meredith talked to Carolyn a while ago. Derek's favorite animal when he was a kid was a seal, not a lion. But … if he's got limited recollections to choose from, now, those limited recollections might be given more weight in the establishment of his "new" personality. Thus, Derek-the-former-seal-lover likes lions, without there being a conscious why. Maybe.

Derek turns back to Amelia. "Do you have this book?"

"Somewhere, I think," Amelia says. "If not, I'll buy a new copy. Maybe, we can work our way through it." She snaps her fingers. "Hey, maybe, I'll read to **you** , this time."

"I will … like," he says, pausing to think. He struggles for a moment. "I will … like this." He gives his sister a warm expression, and they share a long look, and Meredith's glad for him. Glad to see him starting to reconnect with people.

"I thought you were gone," Amelia adds in a strangled voice as she brushes her wet face with the backs of her palms. Her smile is a supernova on her face. "I'm so glad you're not gone, Derek."

"I didn't moved …," Derek says.

Amelia sniffs and nods. "Yes, I'm starting to see that."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Notes:**

Thanks everybody for the really nice feedback! I'm so glad I haven't scared you off with the last author's note. Since I can't respond privately to people who are not signed in, I just wanted to add a public thank you to: RIPDerek, Patsy, Mecawa, Marie, Seriously, Merderluvr, Gem, Neb1223, Chloe, Kate, Emeline, Juli, and all my anonymous feedbackers. Hearing from you all made me smile, and I appreciated you taking the time to post comments. I read and appreciated every single one. If I've missed anybody in the list above, please accept my apologies - I love you guys!

* * *

 **Week ten.**

She doesn't have any idea why she didn't notice this important issue creeping up on her, but when she sees Derek at the breakfast table on Sunday, said issue launches a sneak attack that leaves her flailing for a reason not to laugh out loud at him. The kids have already finished eating, and have planted themselves in front of the television to watch their morning cartoons with glazed looks, which leaves her alone with Derek. Leaves her alone to make her diaphragm ache trying not to giggle.

Derek's hair is a freaking disaster. Like Mount St. Helen's style. Come to think of it, he does look a little like his head is an exploding volcano, she thinks, squinting at him. The on-staff barber did a great job at keeping Derek's hair short while he was in rehab, but now that his hair has been allowed to grow out, it's clear to her that he doesn't have a clue how to manage it anymore.

"What?" he says when he sees her staring at him.

She bites her lip, and she keeps the laugh down with brute force of will, but she can't stop herself from smiling at the Mt. Shepherd eruption going on with his locks.

With a clink, he sets his spoon down in his empty cereal bowl. He frowns at her. "Did I did something funny?" he says, and she doesn't miss the razor edge of insecurity hovering in his tone.

She sucks down on her laughter with everything she's got, and she manages with a straight face, "Do you … um … like your hair like that?"

His frown deepens. "Like … what?"

"It's very .…" She splays both hands and makes a sweeping wax-on-wax-off gesture. "Voluminous." He doesn't seem to be getting what she's driving at. "Hang on," she says, and she gets up to take their dishes back to the sink. She nabs her purse off the center island and brings it back to the table with her. She pulls out her wallet and finds an old picture of him that she snapped with her phone when he came back to his trailer with a trout he caught. "Here," she says, and she foists the picture at him.

He takes the picture in his hands and stares at it for a long moment, not speaking. "I don't remember this," he says.

"That was something like eight years ago," she says. "Do you want your hair to look like that?"

He swallows, and he looks at her. "Do I?"

"Derek, if you want your hair like it is, now, that's fine," she says. Not fine. Not fine in the slightest. "But I **will** say Afros are way out of style."

He thinks for a long moment. "What is an Afro?" he says.

Meredith snorts. "The thing on the top of your head right now."

"An Afro is bad," he says.

Meredith nods. "Bad. Very, very bad."

He thumbs the picture. "And this is good?"

She nods.

He seems hesitant, but he's still looking at the picture when he says, "You like it like this?"

"Yes," Meredith says. "A lot. I think it's sexy."

That seems to make up his mind. "How do I do this?" he says.

She glances at the kids. The television has them engrossed. She thinks it's safe to give Derek a quick haircare lesson. "Come on," she says, and she leads him back to their bedroom, into the master bathroom. Derek follows after her, a curious look on his face.

It's not until she takes the time to look at Derek's sink that she realizes she might have bitten off more than she can chew. She's never had much reason to pay attention to what he keeps on his side of the vanity, before. She didn't touch any of his things while he was in rehab, except to pick out some basic toiletries for him, like shaving cream and shampoo, but he doesn't keep any of that in his "hair stuff" collection, which looks a bit like a city skyline lined up against the wall tiles. Now that she's looking more closely at said skyline, she swallows.

He has more hair products than she does. There's mousse. She knows mousse. She's all about the mousse. Her hair lies flat and lifeless without it. Oh, and hairspray. She's good with that. But Derek also has shaping cream, and pomade – what the hell is pomade? – and gel, and wax, and pre-style … stuff. There's even a disc-shaped container that reminds her of a shoe-polish tin, and it says clay on the top. But … clay? Derek uses clay? No, that can't be clay clay, like Play-doh clay. It's got to be some other kind of clay. Right? And, surely, he doesn't use all this stuff at once, does he?

"This is all for hair?" Derek says, echoing her disbelief.

At least he's stupefied, too. Even though he's brain-damaged, that makes her feel better. "Um," she says. "Okay, I confess, I have no idea how the hell you used to do this, but … I'm sure we can figure it out!"

"Figure it out …," Derek parrots, tone dubious.

"Yes," Meredith says, nodding. "It'll be like … solving a puzzle!"

His body hitches, and she thinks he might have laughed at her just now. A little tiny hiccup of a laugh, but … a laugh. She narrows her eyes at him, but he doesn't give anything else away.

She closes her eyes and tries to watch Old Derek fixing his hair in her mind's eye, but … damn it. Nothing. Wait. She looks at the line of products and pulls one free. The bottle says something about anti-frizz on the surface. She remembers him using a bottle that was this shape. Anti-frizz seems logical. Derek has frizz.

Seriously, how hard can this be?

* * *

It's impossible. Pre-accident Derek was a rocket scientist for hair.

* * *

So far, they've gotten rid of Derek's Afro, but now they have a curly heap of grease on his head, and Meredith thinks that's not much better.

* * *

Derek's mother has no insight. He didn't discover hair care products until after he moved out.

* * *

Pomade is a no-go. She still doesn't know what pomade is.

* * *

"You're sure you don't remember how to do this even a little bit?" Meredith says, wincing at the mirror. They've gone from curly heap of grease to curly brick with a greasy finish.

Derek sighs. "No."

"Like not even one step in five?" she says.

His eyes are twinkling, and his lip twitches like he wants to smile. "No, Meredith."

* * *

Derek doesn't need mousse. Mousse just makes his Afro look bigger.

* * *

"I should get haircut," Derek says, sighing.

Meredith resists the urge to wail, "Noooooooooooo!" like all the cheesy movie heroines do when they find out something earth shattering and awful.

She refuses to give up, yet.

* * *

Sixty minutes of YouTube videos later, with a break to feed the kids lunch, she has some vague ideas about what the hell to do with Derek's stylistic mess, and she's figured out the pomade thing, too. Seriously, what a stupid product.

* * *

"Finally!" Meredith says, pumping her fist at the ceiling. The result isn't perfect, since he hasn't gotten a layered haircut in a while, but it's passing until she can drag him to a stylist. "Finally, we discover the super-secret combination!" Anti-frizz. She was right about the anti-frizz. But that's before blow-drying, and after the blow-drying, shaping clay is required. And, no, the clay is not actual clay.

He frowns at the mirror. "This is … so much … work."

"Yes," Meredith says, "but it's worth the effort."

He seems dubious about her assertion.

She closes the space between them, looks up at him through her eyelashes, and gives him a languid grin. "It means I can do this." She brushes her fingers through his hair; it's soft and touchable, and his curls are tamed into waves that don't catch on her nails.

His hair is long enough now that the sensation makes his eyelids dip, and he leans into the touch. "Hmm," he rumbles, the syllable a bass purr that makes her insides tighten.

Her grin widens as she makes a mental note. One of his favorite things before, still one of his favorite things, now. Fingers through his hair.

Hmm, indeed.

* * *

On Monday, when she drives Derek home from rehab, the air outside the car cabin is almost solid, it's so waterlogged. She hasn't noticed any rain today. Everything is wet. Like an overladen sponge. Fog coils in the air. And all she sees anywhere she looks is gray. Gray and drab, and as the sun sets, grayer and more drab, and any moment, black will slide across the world like a body bag and turn the horizon monochromatic.

She loves Seattle. How fresh the air is. How friendly the people are. The intense, verdant green of everything, begat by the gray and the rain. But every once in a while, the gray gets to her – the drabness, the wetness – and she doesn't see the green so much anymore. She feels blah.

"What's your favorite color?" she asks.

He thinks for a moment. "Should I have one?"

"Most people have a few that they really like," she says. "I like red."

"Red is your … fav … favorite," he says.

She nods.

"Why?" he says.

This question catches her off guard. She's not sure she's ever had to articulate why. "It's kind of a sexy, danger, here-I-am color. It pops out at you. It's hard to miss. It makes you stop and look."

He processes that for a minute. "What is mine?" he says. He winces. "Is mine. Is … was. Was mine?"

"You said you liked indigo," she says, and her heart aches a little, remembering that.

The days that followed, when Addison showed up, were a tragic, horrible mess. But that night, when he told her he liked indigo, when he showed her his trailer – she'll remember that night, always. And she'll remember the morning, too, when she woke up, walked out onto his deck wearing nothing but his t-shirt, and watched the deer grazing less than twenty yards away.

 _Good morning,_ he said in a soft voice as he handed her a steaming cup of coffee, and he sat down in the lawn chair next to hers. The deer paused. Raised their heads. Looked while they chewed on grass and twigs. But their hackles lowered when Derek didn't move again, and their heads dropped back to the ground after a minute.

 _Do you see this every morning?_ she said.

 _Hmm, yes,_ he said. _And this._

 _What?_

He gestured at the sky. Pinks and oranges replaced dusky hues. With all the puffy clouds reflecting light, the sun lit the sky on fire as it rose from the horizon, and Meredith watched, lips parted in awe. _Oh,_ she said.

"What is … indigo?" Derek says, yanking her out of the memory.

Her heart squeezes at his question. She says, "It's a deep, intense blue."

"Why did I liked it?" he says.

She shrugs. "You know, I never asked."

He thinks for a minute. "I think green is my fav … favorite."

"Green?" she says, frowning. "Why the switch?"

"Your eyes are green," he says, and in that moment, the world feels much less gray.

* * *

Derek puts the kids to bed every night that week without encouragement. On Thursday, Meredith and Derek are curled up together on the couch. She's reading a silly romance novel she bought on a whim at the grocery store. He's flipping through magazines, looking at the pictures. He's been getting better at reading primer books, but toward the end of the day, he wants nothing to do with that kind of mental strain, so he limits his practicing to mornings.

Zola appears in the living room an hour after her bed time, rubbing her sleepy eyes. "Daddy, there's a monster."

"Monster?" he says.

"Can you make it go away?" Zola says.

Derek looks at Meredith, eyes creased with confusion. "What is …?"

"A scary, bad thing," Meredith explains. "But it's imaginary." She turns to Zola. "Zozo, there's no such thing as monsters."

But Derek puts down his magazine and ratchets to a standing position. He grabs his cane. "I can look," he says, and Meredith frowns. Did he not understand the part about monsters being imaginary? She puts her book down and follows him and Zola back to Zola's room.

"Where did you saw monster?" Derek says to Zola.

"Derek, they're not real," Meredith interjects. "There's nothing to see."

He glances at her with an unreadable expression, and she gets the distinct impression he's trying to project some kind of message at her, but she can't read him. Not even a little. And then he turns back to Zola, and she can't see his eyes to read, anyway. "Where?" he says.

"Under my bed," Zola says.

He drops to his knees, his tight grip making his cane wobble, and he looks into the small, dark gap between Zola's mattress and the floor. "Nothing here," he says, but of course there isn't. All Zola has under her bed are shoes.

"Really?" Zola says.

He nods. "Really." He gets to his feet with a bit of a struggle and sits on Zola's bed. She climbs onto the mattress and sits next to him. He glances at Meredith, but she still can't figure out what the hell he's doing, or why. She opts to sit down on his other side, though. To humor him. He sees things differently than she does, now. He calls the produce section at the grocery store pretty. Maybe, he sees this differently, too.

He hugs Zola. "Dark is … scary, sometime," he says.

"You get scared in the dark, too?" Zola says.

He shrugs. "Sometime. I .…" His mouth opens and closes. He swallows. He thinks. "The hospital," he says. "At night."

"Were there monsters at the hopspital?" Zola says.

He gives her a smile. "No, but … I … didn't knew … much word." He thinks. "Not know … know …." A pause. "Knowing. Not knowing is scary."

Meredith wraps her arms around him. She never thought of that before. Him in rehab. He had a private room, so he slept alone. In the dark. In a world that was new to him.

The first few months after he woke up, he looked at everything new like it might bite him. And he couldn't walk. And he couldn't communicate. He doesn't remember that part, but she can't imagine what that would feel like, in that kind of state, waking up alone in the dark.

They tuck Zola back into bed together. Both lean to kiss her on the forehead. But only Derek says, "Room is the same, light or dark."

And Zola takes this information into dreaming.

* * *

Derek's silent in the car all the way to Callie's house. Meredith pulls to the curb to park. "We're here!" trumpets Zola. "We're here!"

"Here, here, here!" Bailey adds, a bubbly mimicry.

Callie lives on a quiet, dark, narrow street. The warm glow of lights through the windows of her house paints bright squares on her lawn. Silhouettes shift beyond the pale curtains, and when Meredith pushes open her car door, she can hear muted laughter carrying through the air.

Derek stares into space through the windshield of the Jeep like he doesn't even realize they've arrived. He's dressed himself in threadbare jeans and an indigo-colored t-shirt, and between that and his now-tamed hair, he looks amazing. Amazing and preoccupied.

She reaches across the parking brake to squeeze his knee. "Derek, are you okay?"

He looks at her. Words don't arrive for a glacial span. "These are my friends," he says. A not-question question that makes her frown.

"Yes. I'll reintroduce you to all of them, though; don't worry." She pauses and lets him catch up. "You don't have to remember everybody."

"… Okay," he says.

She rubs his thigh. "Are you nervous?"

"Nervous," he parrots, the word without intonation.

She can't tell if he's asking for a word meaning, so she adds, "Um, worried."

"They know I … was … hurt," he says. Again, a question, but not a question.

She nods, eyes narrowing. She's not sure what he's fishing for, yet. She raises her palm to his hair and runs her fingers through it. She traces his craniotomy scar. His posture relaxes as she strokes him. "Yes, they know," she says.

For whatever reason, her answer seems to steel him a little. He swallows. "Okay."

He pulls on the door handle and gets out of the car before she can ask him anything else. She should have tried to figure out what was wrong with him before they left the house, but she didn't have much time to think when she got home. Even with Derek helping out by getting the kids into the car seats while she put on some clean, not-vomited-on clothes, they barely had time to drive to Callie's without being late.

Derek gets Bailey out of his car seat while Meredith frees Zola from hers. With the kids liberated, Derek walks to Meredith's side of the car. She stares at the doorway, swallowing. He might not want to admit he's nervous, but she is. Not just on his behalf, but on hers. She hasn't had a chance to socialize like this in over a year, and she misses it.

"You want to ring the bell?" she says to Derek when they get to the door. The kids collect like monkeys gibbering in the trees, though the trees, in this case, are four legs and a cane.

He peers at Meredith with an unreadable expression, and then he pushes his thumb into the doorbell button. Callie answers in moments. "Hey, you guys!" she says through the storm door, a huge smile lighting up her face when her gaze lands on Derek. She pushes the door open for them and waves them inside.

Callie drops to a crouch so she's eye level with Zola and Bailey, and she says, "The kids are playing in Sofia's room." She points to the long hallway beyond the foyer. "Just go straight back. You can't miss it." The kids need no encouragement, and have already run off before Meredith and Derek have done more than stamp their feet on the welcome mat to shake off any stray mud.

"Derek," Callie says as she rises to her feet, and Meredith thinks this is it.

The sink or swim moment. Meredith sat Callie, Miranda, Ben, Richard, and Catherine down in a conference room earlier today and gave them the Derek Interaction 101 crash course. Callie knows about pause. And about needing to use short sentences. And about not adding new information before Derek's done processing the information he's already got. And about trying not to tag team, trying to let him focus on one thing at a time. Meredith hopes, hopes, hopes this goes well. For Derek's sake.

"Derek, this is Callie," Meredith says.

He swallows. For a long moment, he doesn't speak, like he's so stuck he can't even get his mouth to move, let alone get his throat to eject a syllable. Meredith's heart twists as she thinks this whole socializing thing is going to crash and burn before they even get off the doormat.

But then he manages, "Hello," in a soft, willowy voice. Like he's scared or something. "Callie." Meredith puts her hand at the small of his back to let him know she's behind him.

"Derek, it's so great to see you!" Callie says, not even batting an eyelash at the long, ominous pause, or the need for an introduction to somebody she's known for years. She twitches like she wants to step into his space and hug him, but she holds herself back. "Do you remember last time I saw you? You look so much better!"

Derek stares at Callie. His mouth opens and closes. He thinks, and Callie waits. "… N-no, I have no … remember," in that same bare, nervous tone. He winces at his mistake. He and his speech therapist have been working on remember versus memory for weeks, now, because it's one of his problem areas, but Meredith hasn't noticed any improvement. "M-mem. Memory."

Callie keeps on beaming. "Well, that's okay," she says with a dismissive gesture. "I'm sure I was boring company, anyway. Come on!"

Callie leads them into the living room, where Richard, Catherine, Maggie, Miranda, and Ben are sitting in a cozy ring around the coffee table. All of them but Richard sip from wine glasses – Catherine and Maggie have reds, and Miranda and Ben both have whites. Meredith's mom-ears pick up a distant giggle, but it's not Zola or Bailey. The room is warm and homey, and the air smells like baked goods. Derek's gaze flits to all the people in the room, and Meredith can't get over how intimidated he looks.

"Are you okay?" she whispers against his ear, quiet enough that only he'll be able to hear. "We can go if this is too much."

He gives her a minute shake of his head that looks almost like a shiver instead of a deliberate, "No."

She bites her lip. Her gut instinct is to grab his hand and yank him out of the house like the Secret Service whisking away a political figure under attack. But … in the end, him staying or not staying is up to him, so she tells her gut to shut up.

She gives him quick re-introductions with Ben and Catherine. Richard, Maggie, and Miranda, Derek knows already from rehab visits. He's following so far, and he seems okay. Not chatty. Nervous as crap. But not in trouble, either.

"Do you want some _hors d'oeuvre_ _s_?" Callie offers. She points at the tray on the coffee table, though she frowns when she notes that it's empty. "Or champagne?"

Derek blinks at the questions she's asked. People who haven't gotten to know him well since his accident wouldn't know what his expression means, but Meredith knows without even trying that Derek doesn't have any idea what Callie's just said. _Hors d'oeuvres_ is a crazy word, and though Meredith's given him the rundown on liquor and beer, she hasn't talked about champagne, yet.

Unlike with Meredith, though, Derek doesn't ask for an explanation. He only says, "No," and he gives no outward hint that he has no idea what he's saying no to.

"I'll have a glass," Meredith says.

Once Meredith and Derek sit on the couch – a big red suede sectional – Callie flits off to the kitchen to grab a fresh tray of some stuffed mushrooms thing she's baked. Miranda sneaks out from underneath her husband's arm and moves over to the couch with Meredith and Derek. She sinks onto the empty cushion to Derek's left.

Miranda gives Derek a warm, welcoming smile. "I see you've figured out how to use mousse again," she says. The last time she visited Derek, he was still in rehab, and he needed a walker to walk. She stopped visiting when Derek came home to give him some adjustment time.

Derek brushes a hand through his hair and looks at his knees as red mottles his cheeks. "Mousse … mousse … no."

Miranda snorts. "Well, you figured out something else in your box of hair secrets then, I guess."

He takes a while to figure that one out. He has to close his eyes to think about it. The red on his cheeks deepens. "Meredith … likes it," he manages after a moment.

Another snort. "I'll bet she does."

"Hey," Meredith interjects. She points at Derek. He's tight as a tripwire. She hopes he'll relax when he sees that everybody here is a friend. "This was work, you know. We spent all of Sunday trying to figure out how the hell he used to do it."

Miranda rolls her eyes. "Of course, that'd be your priority."

"Have you ever heard of pomade?" Meredith says.

Miranda glances at Ben, whose hair can't be more than a few millimeters long, if that. "Does it look like my husband uses hair products?"

"Okay," Meredith concedes, "you have a point."

When conversation pauses, Derek struggles, but he says, "How … are you?"

"Missing your fool ass," Miranda replies.

He lets loose a soft, nervous-sounding chuckle, but his posture eases. Just a little. "My sister … not … fun … t-tease?"

" **No one** is as fun to tease as you are," Miranda replies after a brief pause to figure out what he means.

Meredith smiles as the chatter continues, and though he's being a bit clingy, Derek relaxes beside her. Freaking finally. Everybody's great about meeting Derek's social needs. They're careful to approach him one-on-one, and nobody talks too fast or too long for him to keep up with, and people keep their volume to a sedate murmur. The willowy quality to Derek's tone drips away one word at a time. Meredith thinks this worked out after all, despite her initial concerns. Derek was ready for this.

* * *

The one problem Meredith didn't anticipate is that when one sits seven experienced surgeons in a room, seven experienced surgeons who all work together, the overall conversation is bound to shift toward work. Toward surgery. Two hours into the night, Miranda and Richard regale the room with the tale of their recent patient, a man who managed to impale himself on a no-parking sign in a rather gruesome skateboard accident, and Meredith realizes Derek hasn't said a word in ages. When she glances at him, he's staring into space like he's slipped into a fugue.

He doesn't understand a word they're saying anymore, she realizes, and he's checked himself out of the room rather than draw attention to his confusion. She squeezes his shoulder, and he blinks out of his spatial communion to glance at her. "You okay?" she whispers against his ear.

He gives her a faint smile and ignores her question. "You love … your work."

She nods. "I do."

His gaze trails to Richard, who's saying crazy things like peritoneal cavity and pleural space. Derek looks away and fixates on his knees, and Meredith frowns. This all must be gibberish to him. Beyond the first thirty minutes or so, when people were saying hi to him, talking to him about things a bit more on his current level, nothing about this gathering engages him. He's not deriving any enjoyment from this.

"Do you want to go?" she says. "We can go home."

"No," he says. "You have … fun." She's not sure if he intends this to be an observation or an imperative. He gives her a smile that doesn't meet his eyes, and he rises to his feet. His weight presses down on his cane. "I will check kids," he says. And he limps away, way more off-balance than he should be. She wonders what he's been cranking his brain on that's got him so tired.

* * *

The kids conk out in the back seat on the way home, leaving Meredith and Derek in silence.

"What are you thinking?" she says, trying to break into the shell he's erected around himself since Callie's get-together.

He swallows. "I used to like … doing this."

"Going to dinner parties?" she says.

He shakes his head. "What … you do," he says. "Surgery."

"Yes," she says. They've talked about this before, but things have never gotten more specific than him acknowledging he fixed brains. "Do you remember any of that?"

"Yes," he says. He touches the side of his head. The craniotomy scar. "This? I did this. Not … not for me. But .…"

"Yeah," she says, smiling. "You were what's called a neurosurgeon."

He nods. "I remember this word," he says. "You tell me," he says. A wince. "Told. Told me."

Meredith nods. She reaches. Squeezes his shoulder. He's getting tired, and all the things he finds difficult – conjugations, function words – slip back into prominence.

He stares at the darkness beyond the car window. The Jeep's motor hums in the silence. "This friends we see." He pauses with his eyes shut for a moment. "They all do this."

"Surgery?" she says.

He nods. "Yes."

"They're all surgeons," she says, frowning. "Why?"

"Why … what?" he says.

"Why do you ask if they're all surgeons?"

He's silent for a long time. "Do I have … friend … not surgeon?"

She bites her lip. She doesn't know that much about his personal life in Manhattan. Addison was a touchy subject between them for years, so Meredith never pried, and he never offered, and by the time Addison wasn't a touchy subject, the newness of their relationship, the thrill of new discoveries, the curiosity … that was gone, and she never pried then, either, as a result.

A lump forms in her throat. She can't ever ask him about his life in Manhattan, because it's all gone, she realizes. She missed her chance.

"Meredith?" he says.

"You don't have any that I know about," Meredith says, torn from her reverie.

"Oh," he says, and she doesn't miss the wistfulness in his tone.

She swallows as the lump in her throat gets bigger. "Do you not like them anymore? Callie and Richard and Miranda?"

He looks at his lap. "What do we talk about?"

She realizes what he's getting at, now. What he can't articulate. He doesn't dislike them, no. But he has no common ground with them anymore, either.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Notes:**

Thank you so much for the feedback, everybody :) It's amazing to see how many different people out there are reading - I **love** to hear from you all. Bumping the story rating back up to M, now. This is one of my favorite chapters. I hope you like it!

* * *

 **Week eleven.**

On Monday, after her shift, Meredith finds Richard at the nurses' station filling out a patient chart. Doctors and nurses and other staff bustle back and forth in the hallways, and she dodges left, left, and then right, to avoid the throng of people. Her body aches, because she's been on her feet in surgery for hours, and she's tired and seeing double. Worse, it's a rehab day, and Meredith ran so late in the OR that she had to send Amelia to get Derek in her stead. The hospital has been great about working with Meredith's family situation and her resultant scheduling requirements, but emergencies don't always allow for her to stick to her plans.

She leans against the nurses' station counter. She rubs her eyes. As soon as this request is taken care of, she can go home. She can go home, and she can sleep next to her alive husband. "I need a favor."

Richard finishes writing his sentence and looks up at her. "What is it?"

"You know stuff about fishing, right?"

"Umm," he says. "Not a lot."

Meredith's eyes crease with confusion. "But you've been camping with Derek, right? And I thought you went fishing, too."

Richard shakes his head. "Derek was the one who fished."

"Well, do you **want** to learn to fish?" Meredith says.

"I wouldn't turn down a fishing lesson. Why?" Richard says.

Meredith grinds her molars. This discussion isn't going even remotely how she imagined it would go. She opts for blunt instead of circling around the issue. If she keeps circling, she'll get dizzy. "I want you to take Derek fishing."

Richard frowns. "He still knows how to fish?"

"No, **nobody** knows fishing, apparently," Meredith says, clenching her teeth. "Nobody knows fishing, but you could learn together, couldn't you?"

"Dr. Grey," a man says with a familiar, grating voice, and she slumps against the lip of the countertop.

"What do you want?" she says, which isn't polite. Or professional. Or anything good. But she's tired, and she's freaking done being a doctor right now. She already passed off all her patients, including her post-op, to the attending on call, and she shouldn't have to field interns right now. Especially interns with stupid hair and annoying, squeaky voices. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

Dr. Peters stares at her, fidgety and uncertain.

"What?" she snaps.

"That … that … that …," he says, and his stutter reminds her uncannily of Derek's when he's trying so hard to spit out a word. Dr. Peters takes a deep breath and finishes with a coherent, "That was **amazing**!"

She blinks. "Huh?"

"That save. I thought he would bleed out."

She's not sure what to do with this praise. Cristina would call this guy a hopeless suck-up, but Meredith thinks he's being genuine. There's no saccharinity in his tone. No embellishments. And she remembers, back when she was new, how amazing even the simple procedures seemed. "Um … thanks?"

Dr. Peters licks his lips. "Sorry, I just .… That was so cool, and I wanted … to tell you that. That that was cool. And … I'll go now." And then he flees down the hall with his stupid cape-hair billowing behind him before Meredith can say another word. She stares at him, flummoxed, until he rounds the corner and disappears.

"Meredith, what is this about?" Richard says, and she turns back to face him.

Right. Where was she? "I just …. He just …," Meredith says. She sighs, she steps behind the counter, and she plops into the chair next to Richard, because her feet freaking hurt, and she needs to sit. "I'm trying to expose him to the stuff he used to like, so he can decide whether he still likes it, and fishing is one of the big ones I can't help him with."

"Well, **you** could learn to fish with him," Richard says. "I'm sure he'd love that."

"Yes, but .…" She bites her lip. "He has work friends, still, but he doesn't have any friend friends anymore. I was hoping, maybe, you'd be interested in giving it a go. The friend friend thing."

"Friend … friend?" Richard says.

"Callie's party … all we all did was talk about surgery. Richard, he didn't understand a word of it. The whole point of bringing him along was to help him make social connections again, but I think all the night ended up doing was reinforcing to him how isolated he is, and he's **so** vulnerable to depression. He needs a friend whose sources of commonality with him aren't work, except he can't drive, so it's not like he can just walk out the door and meet someone when he feels like it. And he can't read very well, so it's not like he can hop online and find a meet-up group or read the platonic classifieds in the paper. I just .…" She swallows against the lump in her throat, and she takes a deep breath. She misses Mark. She doesn't miss Mark often anymore, but in this moment, she misses him so much that her heart hurts. Mark would have been there for Derek in a heartbeat, and he would have loved re-teaching Derek how to fish, and how to camp, and how to do all that outdoors-y stuff Derek loved before the accident. Derek needs Mark so much right now, but Mark is gone. Gone like Derek almost was. "I'm sorry," she says, voice cracking as upset swells in her body like the crush of a wave. She misses Mark. Her fellow dirty mistress. "I don't want to guilt trip you. Guilt trips don't really make friends. I'll think of something else." She tries to get up.

"Meredith," Richard says. He puts a hand on her arm, staying her escape, and she collapses back into the chair. "Meredith, I'll visit him. We can figure out fishing, I'm sure. Either that, or it'll be a comedy hour."

"But I guilted you into it," Meredith says.

Richard gives her a smile. "You didn't guilt me. The only reason I haven't visited before now was because I thought you wanted him to yourself for a little bit." He squeezes her shoulder. "It's been a rough year."

"Hello, understatement," Meredith says. She sighs. "This is so **hard**. I thought when he came home, I was past the hard part, but this is just .…"

"I know," Richard says, and she supposes he does know. If there's anyone who can understand having a loved one's behavior and personality radically altered by a health crisis, it's him. He pats her shoulder like he's thinking about hugging her but doesn't have any clue how to do it and not look super awkward. She thinks she kind of needs a hug right now, though, so she leans against him with another sigh. "I'm very busy for the next two weeks or so, but I promise, I'll come out to see him as soon as I can," he says. "I'll buy a _Fishing for Dummies_ book."

She snorts. "Thank you," she says.

He says nothing in response, but his grip over her shoulder tightens. She rests for a while.

* * *

Meredith gets home that night after everybody is already in bed, and Melody is watching the 11 o'clock news at a low volume. She flips off the television when she sees Meredith enter, and she gathers her things in haste. Meredith doesn't begrudge the woman a quick goodbye. It's late, and Melody still has to drive.

Derek's not awake, if the darkness in their bedroom is anything to go by. Meredith changes into a fresh t-shirt and sleep shorts with quick, economical motions. She uses the bathroom, and then a few minutes later, she slides into bed beside Derek. He breathes, even and thick, in and out, in and out, and she knows he's asleep just from that sound.

She closes her eyes and lets the world slip away, hypnotized.

* * *

She wakes up before her alarm. At first, she's not sure why. It's dark as pitch, but the birds outside are awake, singing, and she listens. She snuggles against her husband. He lies along the length of her, one arm draped over her hip. His nose is pressed into her hair, and he breathes against the nape of her neck. He's erect, and she feels him, poking into her spine, but she can't bring herself to care about the uncomfortableness of that, because he's warm, and wrapped around her, and she's so relaxed she's freaking Jell-O.

She reaches for his hand, the one resting on her hip, his right one, and guides him higher, so she can hold him against her chest. The skin on his palm and fingers is soft, healed after more than a year of no scrubbing in. This is his weak hand, but only his motor cortex is messed up. He still registers touch the same as he always has. She kisses each finger.

"Hmm," he purrs behind her, tickling her neck with the syllable. His fingers flex in her grip. "Morning." His voice is thick and sleepy.

"Good morning," she replies.

He doesn't say anything else, and his breathing evens into sleep again.

And that's when she realizes what's different. What's woken her up. They haven't done this since before the accident. The spooning. Not like this. At least not when she's been awake to notice it. She squeezes his hand, and he shifts in his sleep.

"I love you," she whispers. And she waits for her alarm, tucked against him, warm, safe, content.

* * *

She takes her vibrator with her into the shower that morning. The device is a small, crescent-shaped, black one, about four inches long, which she uses in times of need. Derek's used it, too. For her, not for him. She remembers once, how he held it in front of her, cupping it over her while he took her from behind. Every time he pounded into her, he pushed her pelvis into the vibrator, and she came so hard she saw a universe of stars.

This morning, she imagines him stepping into the shower behind her, erection bobbing as he stalks toward her, lithe and like a panther. She hasn't seen him naked since he re-learned how to dress himself and bathe. But she knows him. She knows his anatomy. Knows it all by heart after countless nights of exploration. She's touched every inch of him. Kissed every inch. And she knows.

Her phantom Derek steps forward through the shower spray, looking at her with hungry eyes. His hair drips. "You tried to start without me," he says, and he takes the little vibrator from her hands. "You've been a bad girl."

She swallows, eyes half-closed, and licks her lips. "Yes," she says.

He dwarfs her, pressing into her space. He kisses her. "Very, very bad," he says.

"Yes," she says. "Are you going to punish me?"

Real Derek is too tall for this. Too tall take her standing, not without something for her to increase her height with, like a box. Or heeled shoes. Or something. Real Derek doesn't like role-play, either. He thinks it's silly. But the beauty of fantasy is that it doesn't matter one bit what Real Derek can't or won't do.

"Oh, yes," he says. He flips her around and presses her against the cold tile wall, making her the center filling in a delicious sandwich of fire and ice. He doesn't ask her if she's ready. He pushes into her in one swift jerk, and she gasps as he comes to a stop at the end of his thrust, sheathed.

He doesn't give her time to adjust before he's pumping into her, wild, almost bruising with his force. Her fingers scrabble along the cold, smooth tiles as she struggles for purchase. She pants, dizzy with sensation. When he fills her, she's complete, replete, but when he withdraws, she's empty, and needing, and desperate.

"Please," she tells him as the water rains down around them.

"Oh?" he purrs in her ear. "Tell me more."

"Please," she begs. "Please, please."

The rush of the water fills the silence. Her body tenses like a coiling spring when he appeases her again, and again, and again. When she releases, she can't breathe, and her body twitches head to toe, and she's stuck in the void somewhere, in euphoria, floating. She sails back to earth when her lungs start working again. She pulls the little black vibrator away and flips the switch to turn it off.

Imaginary Derek is gone.

She's waterlogged, and sated, at least for a little while. Fantasy is never as good as the real thing, though, and she misses the real thing. She misses Real Derek filling her empty spaces.

* * *

The OR is bright, and sterile, and smells of bowel.

"So, is Derek your plus one for next week?" Maggie says from across the operating table. "Or are you going stag?"

Meredith frowns. Her field of view is a sea of red. "Suction, please," she says, and the scrub nurse steps in to aspirate the area. "My plus one? My plus one for what?"

"The fundraiser," Maggie says. "The one we're required to go to if we want to keep our jobs?"

"Oh." Meredith sighs. "That." With Derek coming home, the gala thing was the last thought on her mind. "I forgot about it," she confesses. "I completely forgot." She bites her lip. "I don't think I'll bring Derek." She frowns. "Should I bring Derek?"

Maggie leans closer to the draped body on the table, squinting. "My view is too small; more retraction?" And then she glances at Meredith. "Why not? You don't think he'd want to support you?"

Meredith frowns. She didn't think of asking Derek to come along in that light, as a supportive fixture more so than a participatory one, and it's weird to her. Weird that he's maybe healthy enough, now, that he could do that, if she asked him to. Support her. Like she supported him back when he was Chief. But … a gala would be busy. Noisy. Bright. Far more work for him to handle than the party at Callie's had been. Still, she thought he wasn't ready for Callie's, either, and aside from the fact that he had nothing to talk about, he was fine with that. Maybe, he's ready to take the leap. Maybe.

"How many units of AB negative do we have left?" she says.

"Six, Dr. Grey," says another nurse. "We've used seven so far."

"Okay," Meredith says. "Hang another." She glances at Maggie. "I think he'd be bored to tears." But … so would she. And it would be so nice to have him along, making the minutes go faster.

"So?" Maggie says as if she's read Meredith's mind. "Isn't being bored the duty of a plus one?"

Meredith snorts as she ligates the huge tear in the bowel with a running whipstitch. This man's whole abdomen is a freaking war zone full of buckshot. They've been at this for hours, trying to get him stabilized. Five bullet wounds because he didn't wear don't-shoot-me orange, and some drunk idiot thought he was a deer. What an ugly mess. But at least he's not coding every five minutes anymore, and they have time to talk about other stuff to kill the stress.

"Plus," Maggie says, "he's very pretty, and the goal is to get people to donate, right?"

"Okay," Meredith says with a laugh, "you may have some points."

"Hey," Maggie says, "it can't hurt to ask him, can it?"

"I guess not," Meredith says. Except she doesn't want to drag Derek to something like this, only to have him freak out on her because a noisy, bright, crowded gala is something he can't handle even if he wants to. She hasn't taken him to Pike Place, yet. She ruled it out before, thinking it would be too much for him. "Hey, can you take the kids on Saturday in the afternoon?"

"Sure, why?" Maggie says.

"I think, maybe, a test run might help me decide whether to ask him, and I think I know just the thing."

* * *

Wednesday night, and Operation Encourage-Dad-Derek continues.

Zola's in her room coloring. Derek's playing with Bailey on the rug. They're zooming cars back and forth and smashing blocks towers with them.

"Derek?" she says, and she gives him a moment to break his focus and look up at her. When he does, she says, "I'm trying to finish this chapter." She gestures to the book she's reading. It's a long, fat medical volume that's making her eyes cross and her vision blur, but she's trying to brush up on procedure for a surgery tomorrow. She **needs** to brush up. "Why don't you help Bailey take his bath?"

Bailey knows those words, and he's on his feet in seconds. "Baf time, baf time!" he cheers. "Dada, come hep wif baf time!" And he races off to the bathroom in the hallway between his and Zola's rooms.

Derek blinks at the noisy spectacle of his son's egress. He thinks for a moment. His mind is tired, and he's slow on the uptake, even for him. "A bath .…" he says. His eyes narrow. "A normal bath?"

"Yes," she says. "Stopper the drain." She pauses for him. "Fill up the tub with warm water." Pause. "And scrub him down with a washcloth and soap."

Derek thinks for a moment, absorbing what she's said. "… Okay," he says.

He climbs to his feet. He's had a rough day in rehab, and he's not moving well, but he's not using his cane, either, which is wonderful to see. He still needs it for anything outside, and for active things inside the house, but on lazy nights when he's not moving around much, he stores his cane by the front door, which is where it's resting, now. He turns to leave.

"Oh," she says. "Be sure to use the baby shampoo for Bailey's hair."

Derek's mouth opens and closes, and she thinks she may have stumped him. He knows what shampoo is, but she doubts he's ever heard of it with that modifier before. He's already working on saying something, though, so she doesn't interrupt his thought process. A syllable catches in his throat. He tries again. "W-what is … baby shampoo?" he manages.

"It's special shampoo for kids," she says. "It doesn't hurt if it gets in their eyes."

"Oh," he says.

"It's a tall bottle with gold-colored liquid in it," she says. She waits. Let's him soak that in. "It's got a red teardrop on the front."

He swallows. "… Okay," he says, and he hobbles out of the room.

Thirty minutes later, she hears splashing, and giggling, and when she pokes her head into the bathroom to make sure everything's going okay, she finds a very sudsy Bailey sitting in the tub. Derek's resting on the bathmat, leaning over the edge of the tub, and he and Bailey are playing some nonsensical game with rubber duckies that she can't hope to guess the rules for.

She smiles, and she leaves them to their fun.

* * *

Her test run at Pike Place begins with a bang.

She and Derek are out of the cab for less than two minutes when a deep, male voice shouts, "Halt! Stop!" from somewhere behind them. Meredith and Derek freeze on the sidewalk, wide-eyed, as a cop on a bike plows past them. The brakes on his bike squeak as he skids to a stop, cutting off a little man with a goatee running toward the thickest part of the crowd. The cop leaps off the bike and tackles the guy, the bike slams to the sidewalk, wheels spinning in the wind, and then two more cops come out of nowhere. The three of them hold the guy down, one with his knee pressed into the little man's spine, and handcuffs flash. The whole thing is over in a matter of seconds.

A cop car pulls to the curb, sirens chirping, and the three cops who caught goatee guy manhandle him into the backseat of the car and slam shut the door. Bike cop brushes off his skinned knees and limps back to his bike. The other two cops who came out of the crowd disperse again.

Meredith blinks. That's … not something you see every day. She wonders what goatee guy did.

"What … what …?" Derek says beside her, bewildered.

"One second, Derek," she says, squeezing his hand to let him know she knows he's confused. She heads toward the cyclist cop. He's a tall man with curly blond hair and brown eyes. He bends over to pick up his fallen bike. "Are you okay?" she says.

The man looks up, expression surprised. His badge reads Lt. Eric Zemeckis. He takes a look at her, and a look at Derek. "I'm fine, ma'am," he says. "Thank you for asking."

"I'm a doctor," Meredith says. She gestures at his ankle. "Do you want me to look at that?"

The man gives her a soft smile. "No, thank you. I'm sure it's just a little sprained."

"Okay," she says, nodding. She's done her civic duty, and he seems fine enough. Curiosity is burning, though, and she can't help but ask, "What did that guy you just tackled do?"

Officer Zemeckis rolls his eyes. "Bob?" he says. "Oh, he's a pickpocket. He's a bit of a frequent flyer in lockup."

"Oh," Meredith says.

The man tips his bike helmet at them and swings his leg over the back of his bike, a Specialized … something. Meredith doesn't know bikes. "Have a good day, ma'am," he says, nodding. He looks at Derek. "Sir." And then he pedals away.

She turns back to Derek who seems … kind of lost. "That was a police officer. He was catching somebody bad."

"Oh," Derek says. "A pickpocket is bad."

She nods. "A pickpocket steals wallets."

Derek glances at the sidewalk where the tackle took place moments earlier. He swallows. And then he looks back at her. His mouth opens and closes. This whole encounter seems to have mystified him, but … he also seems like he's not even sure what to ask about. Somebody down the street lets loose a shrill whistle, and his attention is yanked in that direction. He stares. A honk from another direction, and he looks back that way. He looks up overhead. And down the wet, puddle-filled streets. And at all the people bustling back and forth.

"Are you okay?" she says.

He blinks and looks back at her. "Yes."

She steps into his space and hugs him. "Just tell me if you're getting overwhelmed, okay?"

"Okay," he says. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

At first she thinks he's steeling himself or something, but then she realizes he's just … experiencing. Everything. This is a lot of new things. The recent rainstorm has made the air smell earthy. And on top of that, she can smell fish. Pretzels. All sorts of food.

He spends ten minutes standing on this spot. Thinking. Processing. And she waits.

"What next?" he says when he's had his fill.

She grins at him. "Whatever you want," she says. "See anything you want to look at?" The cool thing about Pike Place is how crazy it is. She finds something new almost every time she comes here to look around, and she's sure with Derek's fresh perspective, she'll find even more new things.

He looks at a throng of people headed down a flight of stairs, and he walks in that direction, his cane leaving little wet rings on the sidewalk like footprints behind him. She follows, clutching his free hand. In minutes, she's lost in a maze of little shops and a bustle of people.

The great part, though, is that she's lost with **him**.

* * *

They pick up chocolates. And knickknacks. And t-shirts. And small craft items. There are so many kiosks and shops, and Derek looks at everything, wants to buy souvenirs everywhere, wants to touch anything he can pick up and hold. He's like a freaking octopus or something.

At one table, they find a tray of shiny, handcrafted earrings, and he picks up a tab with two small gold studs. Each stud forms a little sailboat. They're not the kind of in-your-face ear bling that weighs a zillion pounds and hurts by the end of an evening, and they're not some girly thing like butterflies or unicorns or flower buds. They're pretty. And unassuming. Derek holds up the tab to show them to her.

She laughs, unable to stop herself from thinking of Derek getting attacked by a jewelry store clerk with an earring gun. Yikes. "Please, don't tell me you want to get your ears pierced .…"

He gives her an easy smile, though, and he focuses on her like she's his universe in that moment. "No," he says. He holds them up to her face. "For you, Meredith."

She blinks. "Me?"

"Yes," Derek says.

She glances at the stall attendant, an elderly woman with silver hair, who smiles and nods and says, "I think he picked a winner. They look lovely with your skin tone."

She's still gaping as she watches him fish in his wallet for some cash to pay for them. When he holds the little paper bag containing them out for her to take, she swallows. They've never been big on gifts. They don't make birthdays a celebration, and Christmas is all about showering the kids with goodies, not each other. Though, of course, with Old Derek being his happy, cheerful, Christmas-addict self, he would always buy her a few things, and with her knowing that Old Derek would get her a few things, she would always try to get him **something**. Still, she can't recall the last time Derek Shepherd gave her something at random like this. A simple thinking-of-you gift.

Her hand closes around the bag. The paper crinkles. She slips the gift into her purse. She supposes he could have gotten lucky with this pick, but she thinks this is more than that. This is a calculated present. And the fact that, despite all the crap he's got going on right now, he's been paying enough stealth attention to her to know what kind of earrings she would and wouldn't like .…

A lump forms in her throat.

"Thank you," she says, almost a croak.

His gaze softens. He steps into her space, and he presses his lips to hers. "You're welcome, Meredith," he says in a low purr that makes her heart beat faster.

When he pulls away, he keeps her hand prisoner, and their adventure continues, skin to skin.

* * *

He loves to watch the fishmongers throwing fish. They stay there for twenty minutes.

* * *

They eat an early dinner at the Athenian. It's a bit of a tourist trap, and Derek walked right into it, but whatever. The food is good, and the view is better, and Meredith's feet are killing her, so she'll take any establishment with a chair at this point.

She and Derek sit in a tiny wooden booth that overlooks Puget Sound. The day is overcast, and the choppy water and cloudy sky are contrasting shades of gray. Tiny sailboats drift in the distance, dotting the grayness with white. A dreary, gorgeous view that Derek watches for a good five minutes while Meredith tries to get all their shopping bags stuffed under the table.

She rests her chin on her elbow and watches him, watching things. One of the things she's discovered she likes about this whole rediscovery of Derek thing is the mere act of watching Derek rediscover. What must that be like, she wonders, for everything to be new and strange and different and exciting?

The waitress brings them menus and fills their water glasses, which drags Derek's attention away from the scenery. He looks down at the menu he's been given with a frown, and then back to Meredith. "What?"

Which is when she realizes, though they've discussed going to a restaurant, they hadn't yet gone, and this is the first one he's set foot in since the accident. Everything is new to him. **Everything**. She knows this, and, yet, every time she's reminded that everything is **everything** ,she's gobsmacked. God, what must that be like?

"That's a menu," Meredith says. "It tells you what this restaurant can cook for you."

"Oh. I … pick?"

She grins. "Yes. You can pick anything listed."

He puts his index finger on the first line of the menu. She thinks reading it might be too hard for him, though, when she watches him struggle for a few minutes without escaping the first line of the appetizers section.

"What is …?" he says. He tries to sound out the word his finger rests underneath, but all he can push out of his mouth is shaped air that tells her his vocal cords won't engage. He has big problems reading aloud, even when he already comprehends what he's reading. A shiver of sound wavers in his throat. He closes his eyes. He thinks for a long moment. He manages a hesitant, "Ah …," like he's worked out the first syllable. But nothing comes after it. Eventually he slumps and admits, "I c-can't … say this w-word." He points. "W-what … is?"

"Appetizers," she says once she's sure he's finished thinking and churning. "They're snacks to have in addition to the main meal."

"Okay," he says with a nod. "Ah … ah …." He pauses with a frustrated, "Hmm." He thinks for a moment. "Appetizer," he almost spits.

"Yep," she says. "That's right." She reaches across the table to pick up his hand and squeeze it. She kisses his fingers. Hearing the whole menu read aloud to him would be exhausting for him, so she suggests, "Want me to pick you something?" When he nods, she says, "What are you in the mood to try? Salad? Meat? Seafood?"

"Like lobsters?" he says.

She nods. "Lobsters are seafood, yes. But they don't have lobster here, I don't think."

"Okay," he says. "Yes, seafood."

She scans the menu and picks out something with lots of kinds of things in it for him to try. She decides on a burger for herself. When the waitress returns, Meredith orders for them both, and the waitress takes the menus.

"Did you know a movie scene got filmed here?" Meredith says.

He raises his eyebrows. "What movie?"

" _Sleepless in Seattle_ ," she says. "It's a chick flick. Not my thing. But there's a picture by the front door of them filming the scene. We can look at it on the way out." His face is knitting in curiosity, so she adds, "A chick flick is a movie made for a female audience."

"Oh," he says.

The restaurant is a busy rumble of people, and Derek's gaze drifts as he people watches.

"So, how are you doing?" she says.

He grins. "I like this."

"Exploring?" she says.

"Being with you," he replies. "Explore, too."

"Oh!" she says, and he twitches at her outburst. She reaches into her purse and pulls out the earrings he bought her. "I have time to put these on, now," she says. She frees the earrings from the cardboard tab, takes off her tiny hooks, and replaces them with the sailboat studs. "Good?" she says.

His gaze takes on a hungry quality as he leans forward on his elbows. "Yes, Meredith." He swallows. "I think you're pretty."

She doesn't have a chance to reply, because the waitress returns with steaming plates of food. A Taste of the Northwest for him, and a Bacon Burger for her. Her stomach rumbles as the plates are put down, and she doesn't waste a moment before picking up her burger and stuffing it into her mouth. The beef is juicy and greasy and perfect, and the cheddar and bacon combine for an orgasmic combination that leaves her moaning with pleasure.

He tries everything on his plate, and he likes all of it, but the crab cake is what has him making porny noises that match hers. She leans forward and sneaks a bite of it off his plate to see what the big deal is. He watches her fork burgle him with a scandalized expression. She stuffs the piece of crab cake in her mouth before he can comment. Okay, she can see what the groan was about. Delicious. She licks her lips.

"You took it," Derek says.

"It's a marriage perk," she says. "I'm allowed to steal your food."

His lip twitches like he wants to laugh. "Oh, a perk?"

"Yep!" she says.

"Does this mean I steal … steal … can steal yours?" he says in a rumbly tone.

She winks at him. "Why, yes, I do believe that's allowed according to the marriage rulebook." She nudges her plate at him.

She's still not used to Derek-the-shameless-glutton, and watching him take a big bite out of her burger makes her snort. This is the biggest personality change she's discovered so far, and she's not sure she'll ever freaking get used to it. She sneaks a taste of his salmon next. He steals a fry from her.

Eventually, they set the plates next to each other, equidistant from him and from her, and there is no more his food, her food. Just food.

* * *

By the time the taxi takes them back to her Jeep in the Seattle Grace lot, her feet are throbbing, and Derek's limping horrendously because they've walked all over creation. The air is pitch dark and waterlogged with drizzle. She's stuffed; he's stuffed. Neither of them can seem to stop grinning at each other like hormonal, lovesick teens. This was more than a success, she thinks. She doesn't even have to call this a "date" with quotes. There's no stretching to reach a definition. This was a date date.

She had a date with Derek Shepherd.

She smiles as she slides into the driver's seat and settles behind the steering wheel.

She had a date with Derek Shepherd, and the best part is that she wants to do it again.

She senses him staring at her in the darkness, and she turns. His eyes glisten. A dim streetlamp lights his face enough for her to see his expression, a pale, hungering gaze.

"I want … again," he says, as if he's read her mind. He swallows. "Do. To do … this … again."

"Go on a date, you mean?"

He licks his lips. "This is date?" A pause. "A date?"

"That's what I'd call it," she says. A date with her husband.

The leather squeaks as he shifts in his seat. He smiles. "Yes," he murmurs. "A date. I want this."

She grins back at him. No, she amends. The best part isn't that she wants to do it again, but that he does, too.

They both want the Tilt-a-Whirl to go for another loop.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Notes:**

Hey, where did everybody go? I hope you're having fun in the summer sun, at the very least :) Posting a little early again so I can sleep in tomorrow. Thank you so much to those who have commented!

* * *

 **Week twelve.**

The ride home from rehab on Monday is gorgeous. The sun sets to the west along the verdant tree line. The air is on the cool side of balmy. A coiling, black flock of birds zips through the air overhead. Starlings, maybe. Or crows?

"So, I have a thing," Meredith says over the rumble of her car on the pavement as she changes lanes. "On Saturday. A thing."

Derek frowns. "A … thing?"

"It's this fundraiser thing."

"What is fundraiser?"

"It's an event to make money," she says. "For the hospital."

"Okay. Fundraiser thing."

A red car putters along in the passing lane, moving slower than the speed limit, and she grits her teeth as she presses on the brake to keep from mowing the little car flat. She's tailgating, she knows. But, maybe, just maybe, this jackass will get the message and move to the right. She'd pass on the right, except the cars on that side of the road aren't moving that fast, either. She wants to speed, damn it. Just a little. Seven miles over, maybe. And this red Malibu is harshing her mellow.

"It would be crowded," she says. "Lots of people. Crowded. And it would be noisy. I mean, hello, noise. And I'm pretty sure there's a disco ball, so that'd be pretty bright, too, and you don't like bright, but you were fine at Pike Place with the people and the noise, and I just-"

"P-pause," Derek says, shaking. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Pause, please."

Crap. She sighs. She wants to apologize, but she can't even do that, because that would be adding more information for him to churn through. Information he can't handle right now. So, she waits while he thinks himself out of the traffic jam in his head. At least the stupid Malibu moved to the right. She jams on the accelerator.

"I don't … understand," Derek says about a minute later. "What you say." He winces. "Say. Said. I .…"

"I'm sorry," she says, guilt churning. "I'm just … nervous."

He peers at her. "Nervous, why?"

"Because I'm going to ask you for something," she says. She wrings the leather steering wheel with tight, painful fingers. "And it's not something I've asked you for since .…"

"Since I'm hurt," he finishes for her.

She nods. "Yeah. But you can say no. Say no if it's bad. Really, it's okay."

But he doesn't say no. He doesn't say anything. She dares a glance at him. She sees his face in profile, framed against the emerald backdrop of forest flashing past the window. His lip twitches like he's fighting not to laugh at her.

"What?" she says.

"Say no … to **what**?" he says.

"Oh," she says. She gives him a sheepish grin. "Would you be my moral support?"

"Moral support?" he says.

"Yes, um," she says, thinking. "Emotional support, not physical."

He's silent for a while. He licks his lips. "Moral support … at fundraiser … thing?"

"Yes," she says.

He swallows. "It will … help you?"

"Yes," she says.

"Okay."

"Okay, you'll go?" she says.

He nods. "Yes, Meredith. I will go." He looks out the window. "I like to help you."

* * *

She's running so late by the time she picks Derek up from rehab on Wednesday, it's dark out. She's frazzled, and tired, and though he doesn't seem to feel the need to chat, she needs to keep her mind on something other than the dreary road, or she'll go comatose at the wheel.

"Why do you always call me Meredith?" she asks as she guides the car through blackness.

He stares at her with a perplexed expression. "It's … your name."

She shrugs. "Lots of people shorten it to Mere."

"Why?" he says.

"It's a term of endearment, I guess," she says.

"What is …?"

She grins at him. "A special name for someone you like."

"Mere," he says. He makes a weird face as he says the shortened name, like the syllable feels foreign and gooey on his tongue, and he doesn't quite like the taste of it in his mouth.

She nods. "Yeah, Mere."

"I called you … Mere," he says, not quite a question, and again with the gooey-ick face when he hits the shortened name.

"Not always," she says. "Just sometimes."

He stares into space. His temples dance as he grinds his teeth. "I don't … remember."

She winks at him. "Well, you did like me before, you know."

"Yes," he says in a serious tone, like he doesn't realize she's teasing. "… Mere."

"You don't have to," Meredith says. "I was just wondering why you don't say it anymore. Like if there was some explicit reason for it, or if it's … just because. Like, I don't like Post Frosted Mini Wheats, but Kellogg's is okay, and hell if I could tell you why."

"I …," he says. He works through what she's said. His gaze darkens. "You compare," he says.

She's not sure what the hell went wrong. What's wrong with comparing cereal? "I feel like I just made a mistake," Meredith says. "But I'm not sure what I did."

He looks away.

She swallows. "I'm … sorry," she says, bewildered. She's not even sure what she's apologizing for.

He doesn't reply to her apology. He flips on the radio to the classical station they found when she ran out of new classical artists on his iPod to try, and he slumps against the window. His breaths fog the glass. A piano arpeggio fills the silence, followed by a cello, and then a violin. The cold shoulder has never been more literal, she thinks, staring at his jutting left shoulder.

She wishes she had any idea what just happened.

* * *

The shoe salesperson slips a pair of pink Velcro sneakers on Zola's feet and squeezes the toe and the sides to see how they fit. The brown-haired man looks up at Meredith with an easy smile. "These seem just right, ma'am." He looks at Zola. "Do they pinch anywhere?"

"No," Zola says.

"What do you think of them?" Meredith says.

Zola hops to her feet and goes to look at the foot mirror. The shoes are My-Little-Pony-themed, and Meredith thinks these should be instant winners, which will be good, because she's about ready for this Friday to be over. Zola takes all of three seconds to appraise the new footwear.

"I don't like them," Zola says.

Meredith frowns. "What? Why?"

"I want grownup shoes!"

"Grownup shoes?" Meredith says. "You don't want ponies?"

"I like ponies!" Zola says. "But I want grownup shoes. Daddy gets grownup shoes. Why can't I get grownup shoes?"

Meredith glances across the store to the men's section. Derek decided to take advantage of this trip to get some new cross-trainers, because his current ones haven't been replaced since before his accident. The treads are gone, they're mud-stained, and, put lightly, beat to freaking crap. Meredith's frown deepens as she watches Derek test out his new treads. Bailey's walking back and forth with him like a miniature shadow, babbling things Meredith can't understand at this distance.

"You want black ones like Daddy?" Meredith says.

"Ew, no!" Zola says. "I want **grownup** shoes."

"Well, what makes them grownup?"

"They got strings!" Zola says.

"Laces?" Meredith says. "You want laces?"

Zola nods.

"Zozo," Meredith says, "you don't know how to tie laces, yet."

"So?" Zola says. "I can learn!"

"I think we should wait for you to learn to tie them, first."

Zola folds her arms. "But I want them, now!"

Meredith glances at the salesperson. "Do you have ones like this with laces?"

But the man shakes his head. "I'm sorry, no. We don't stock these in a lace version."

"Why don't you get these ones that fit, now, and next time, we can get ones with laces," Meredith suggests. She rubs her eyes. Between shuttling Derek back and forth from rehab, and a long, tiring shift, she's more than done with this day. With shopping. She hates, sometimes, that her windows for finishing errands are so small. They're already edging close to the kids' bedtime as it is, and they still have to pay and get back to the house.

"But I don't want these," Zola insists. Her eyes are wet. "I don't want Velcro anymore."

Meredith can see the temper tantrum coming a mile away, and she can't deal with a temper tantrum tonight. She just can't. Crap. Derek rejoins her with his chosen shoes tucked in a shoebox and Bailey trudging behind him. "I'm done," he says.

"Daddy gets laces," Zola says. "Daddy gets laces. Why don't I get laces?"

"Because Daddy's a grownup," Meredith snaps. "It's one of the few perks. We get what we want."

Derek frowns and looks down at Zola. "I like those," he says, pointing at her pink pony shoes. "Why do you want laces?"

"Everybody at school is going to have laces but me," Zola whines. "I'll be stuck in the little kid shoes."

"I'm sure tons of other kids won't have laces yet," Meredith says, though she's not sure. She can't remember what kids used to wear in kindergarten.

"No, it'll be just me, and I want laces!" Zola says. And then she bursts into tears.

Meredith wants to crawl into a hole and die. She's too tired for this. She turns to the shoe salesperson and sighs. "I'm so sorry about this," she says to him, and then she drops to her knees. "Zola, cut it out," she hisses. "You're embarrassing me." She drags Zola to the bench and yanks the pony shoes off her feet. "You're getting the ones that fit. End of story."

"But Daddy gets-"

"I don't care what Daddy gets," Meredith snaps. "What Daddy gets has no impact on what you get."

She jams the pony shoes into the shoebox and hands them to the salesperson. "Will you, please, ring these up with his?" she says, pointing at Derek's bundle. Derek hands his box to the salesperson, too.

"Certainly, ma'am," the man says with a polite smile.

Meredith jams Zola's old shoes onto her feet while Zola kicks and screams. Derek winces and shifts from foot to foot, and this night could not get worse at this point. Well, it could, she thinks, glancing at Bailey, who's being remarkably well-behaved at the moment. Never mind, she thinks, before the universe knocks on wood for her, or hell, knocks on a whole damned forest. It could **so** get worse.

What surprises her is when Derek sits on the bench on Zola's other side. "Zo, please … stop," he says in a soft voice, though from the look on his face one would think he had someone jamming bamboo shoots under his nails.

"But I want shoes like you!" she wails.

Derek glances at Meredith with a question in his eyes. _Why not?_ he seems to want to know. So Meredith sighs and says, "She can't tie them, yet, and I don't want to get her shoes she doesn't know how to keep on her feet."

Derek stares at her for a long moment, parsing that despite the bedlam, wincing at every lofty peak Zola finds in her pitch range. He swallows, and he looks back at Zola. "I .… I will .… I will." A wince. "I'll teach you this," Derek says, pointing at his shoelaces. "Maybe, you get laces next time. Okay?"

Zola sniffles. "Really?"

"Yes," he says. He looks at Meredith. "Unless Mommy wants teach."

Meredith shakes her head. "Knock yourself out," she says, tone dark.

He frowns at that expression, but doesn't bother asking what it means. She supposes he can gather the general meaning from her tone. He pulls Zola into a hug. "Laces … hard. Are hard. We will … we'll make you expert … first."

"Okay," Zola says in a pitiful, small voice.

And with that, her tantrum dies and slumps into silence. Derek kisses her, and then he tickles her, and he's got her laughing in a matter of seconds. Meredith stares at them, speechless. Derek's always been great with kids. With their kids. With patients. With his army of nieces and nephews. But she wonders, now, how much of that was learned behavior, and how much was an ingrained, intuitive facet of what makes Derek Derek that even amnesia can't erase.

"What?" Derek says, looking up at her.

She manages a grin. "Nice save," she says. "Thanks."

They share a long look, and Meredith's chest tightens as she drinks in his handsome features. God, she loves this man. Not that she ever doubted, before, but she does, and the soft smile he gives back to her like a gift, well, it's a balm for her ornery mood.

* * *

Nancy calls on Friday night after Meredith and Derek get back from the shopping mall with the kids, knowing full well that Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are the crappiest days she could pick to call. She talks in horrific run-on sentences, knowing full well that Derek can't handle run-on sentences in person, let alone on the phone. She interrupts him when he's trying to think, knowing full well that interrupting him when he's thinking makes the delays between his responses even worse.

"Derek, did you hear me?" Nancy says, her voice tinny through the cell phone's little speaker.

Derek swallows, yanked from thinking about the answer to her previous question, in order to think about this new question. He shifts in his seat like he's agitated, and his skin mottles red. "Yes, I hear. Hear. Hear. H-heared you. I heared you."

"Well?"

His mouth opens and closes, and he pulls his fingers through his hair. He licks his lips. "W-w-what … you ask. Asked. I .…"

"When are you going to visit us?" Nancy says in an exasperated tone. "The kids miss their favorite uncle! There's only so many times I can tell them you're busy before that excuse doesn't work anymore. It's been more than a year since you've been to New York. I know you were hurt, but you're fine, now. Mom shouldn't have to keep flying out to you."

Derek gives Meredith a helpless _I'm-drowning_ look. He asks for help a lot, trying to figure out what's been said, but he doesn't ask this time. His mouth opens and closes. A frustrated grunt sticks in his throat. "I … can't .…" he manages.

"Yes, you can," Nancy says, cutting in, and misinterpreting him in the process. "You don't work. There's nothing stopping you from hopping on a plane," she adds in a scolding tone. "Thanksgiving, maybe? That's only a few months away. We'd love to see you for Thanksgiving."

"Pause. Please, pause," he whispers, rubbing his temples. He curls in on himself as he puts his head down on the table. He shields his head with his shaking arms and hands. "Please, pause. Please," he adds, the words muffled by skin and bone and table.

The other end of the line fills with affronted silence, and Meredith's had enough. She shouldn't have let it get this far, but Derek's an adult who can make his own decisions about what he's willing to put up with, and she hates to do things that might make him feel like she thinks he's not. She snatches the phone.

"Nancy, he can't talk to you right now," Meredith says into the receiver.

Nancy snorts. "What are you, his keeper?"

Meredith glances at Derek, who's still curled up, hands clapped over his ears like he's got people banging gongs next to his face. She takes the phone to the bedroom and closes the door behind her to give Derek some peace. "He literally can't talk to you," Meredith says. "Not may not. Can't. Cannot. As in he's not able. He can't handle talking that fast, and now he's a wreck, and it's probably going to take him at least fifteen minutes to pull himself back together."

"I'm sure you're exaggerating," Nancy says.

Meredith rolls her eyes. "Nancy, you can't do this to him. You can't."

"Can't do what?"

"Act like he's not hurt anymore," Meredith says. "His brain got smashed. Do you understand that? That his brain got smashed?"

A long pause follows. "Yes," Nancy says in a soft voice. A sniff. "I saw when I visited last year."

Meredith sighs. Nancy visited right before Christmas, when Derek was first starting to talk again, and he was limited to a few single-syllable words. "Don't ask him if he heard you," Meredith says, though she feels like she's explained this fifty times. "His ears freaking work. All asking him if he's heard you does is interrupt his train of thought, embarrass him, make him feel pressured, and frustrate him that he's not able to answer you faster."

"I .… It's just .… It's hard. Figuring out what the long silences mean."

"The long silences mean he's freaking thinking," Meredith says. "And when he's doing that, you can't add more. You're adding more to a full glass, and you're spilling water everywhere."

"But what if he really **didn't** hear me?"

"Nancy, you get that I'm listening, too, right? The phone is so difficult for him, he needs a second person helping him. Even if he didn't hear you, the chances that **neither** of us heard you is like … nil."

"Oh."

"Look," Meredith says, "imagine I handcuffed your arms and feet and then told you to run a marathon. That's what talking on the phone is like for Derek, but he does it anyway, because you're his family. He's trying **so** hard for you, and you're stomping all over that like Godzilla."

The silence on the other end of the line stretches, but unlike Nancy, Meredith doesn't bug her sister-in-law for an immediate response. She waits.

"I'm … sorry," Nancy says.

"Don't be sorry," Meredith says. "Do better, or don't call again. I don't want to be mean, but I'm sick of watching you do this to him, and I'm sick of watching him let you." And if she has to be the bad guy to rectify this situation, so be it.

She doesn't hear Nancy hang up, but when Meredith glances at the phone, she sees that the call disconnected at some point. Whatever. Let Nancy stew if that's what she wants to do. Meredith walks back to the living room with his phone.

Derek's recovered enough to sit up and stare into space with a blank expression. "I try," he says. "I t-try .…"

"Don't worry about her," Meredith says, sitting down in the chair next to him. She puts the phone down on the table. She rubs his back. "Worry about **you**."

He looks at his phone with hate glinting in his eyes, but he says nothing.

* * *

"How is this?" Derek says as he steps out of the master bathroom with a black, untied bow-tie clutched in his hand.

Meredith's breaths seize in her chest, and she thinks she might be staring like a bug with big bug eyes. But Derek looks fabulous. He's always looked fabulous in a tuxedo, but this is the first time she's seen him wearing one in over a year, and her insides tighten just from looking at him. Her mouth is dry, too, and she swallows.

He shifts under her scrutiny. "It's wrong?"

She shakes her head. Lets a smile stretch across her face. "No, no. Nope, not wrong at all. You look so handsome in that!"

He gives her a sly little smile that makes her heart stop. His gaze shifts as he eyeballs her head to toe in a slow, pleased appraisal. "You're pretty, too," he says.

She's wearing a pencil-skirt black dress, little strap-y sandals she's had for what feels like a decade, and a tiny gold necklace. Nothing special. She's never been an overly feminine woman, not one who likes getting dressed up, or loves shopping for clothes, or cares much for makeup and adornments, but she admits, it's nice to be told she's pretty. It's especially nice to be told that by him. And it's a cherry on top of her whole freaking life that he's alive to tell her that, **now**.

She closes the space between them. His aftershave is a spicy scent that tickles her nose. He's shaved and coiffed and perfect, and she can't help but think of ripping him out of this suit one piece at a time. She wraps her arms around him, leans up on her tiptoes, and kisses him. A soft rumble of approval loiters in his throat. He tastes like mint. His arms wrap around her, and his hands slide lower, lower, lower against her silk dress.

When they pull apart, panting, she brushes a loose strand of hair out of her face. She licks her swollen lips, relishing the taste of him. "We should hold that thought," she suggests. "Or we'll be late."

His gaze creases with confusion. "Hold a thought?"

"Not literally," she says, grinning. "It means save this activity for later."

"Oh," he says. The skin around his eyes crinkles, and his gaze becomes predatory. "I like this … activity." The way he says the word activity slides down her spine like silk, and her body throbs.

Her lips part, and she lets the scent of him, his musk, and his aftershave, loiter in the back of her throat. His presence is a heady one. "Yes," she says, a discombobulated syllable. "Yes, me, too."

He closes the space between them again to nuzzle her. "More kissing, I say," he rumbles right by her ear, and she freezes in his arms. He stops. "What?"

"Do you remember that?" she says. "Or are you just saying that?"

He pulls back and frowns at her. "Remember what?"

"'I'm all for the kissing,' you said. 'More kissing, I say.'"

He stares at her with a blank expression, and she shakes her head. She's being silly. That moment wasn't even a very special one; what does it matter if he remembers that? "Sorry," she says. "Sorry, it's just … that was uncanny."

"Hmm," he says, looking away. He pulls out of her arms. He's shutting down, now, and she's not sure why. He pulls a bundle loose from his pocket. The crumpled bow tie he was holding when he came out of the bathroom. "What is this?"

She frowns at his not-so-subtle subject-change. "It's a bow tie. It goes around your neck," she says. "I'll show you how." She touches his shoulder, squeezes it, and guides him back into the bathroom so he can see what she does in the mirror.

* * *

The fundraiser gala is the same level of crazy spectacle it was last time, but it's a different kind of crazy, this year. They've traded in the jugglers and acrobats for a retro theme, but there's still music, and food, and lights, and chatter, and sparkly people. Meredith loathes the entire affair before she's walked across the threshold of the main hallway, but she figures she might as well bite the freaking bullet, and she keeps on trudging. Derek pauses, though, and her arm is yanked from bent and relaxed to tight and straight, because he's holding her hand. Well, death-gripping her hand, anyway. She snaps to a halt and turns to look at him.

He gazes wide-eyed at the parade for the senses. He swallows, and his lips part as his focus freezes on the sparkly disco ball like he's been caught in a snare. Yes, there's a damned disco ball, just like she thought, and it's a Derek Disaster, just like she thought. She bites her lip, thinking she's made a mistake. This is too much stuff for him to process.

She steps back into his space, closer to him, and she squeezes his hand. "You okay?"

He blinks, and it takes him a moment to look away from the spinning lights. "Yes," he says. "Yes." He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and when he opens them again, he smiles at her. Not a giant I'm-dying-of-happiness smile, but a smile, nonetheless. "I'm okay."

"You're sure?" she says.

"Yes," he says. He winces, spoiling the effect of the smile. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand, but when he drops his hand, he looks … fine. Not great. But fine. "I'm moral support. Do your fundraiser thing."

She's not convinced, yet.

"I promise I will .… I will .…" He thinks. "I'll tell if I need … stop."

"You **promise** ," she says.

He nods. "Yes. Promise."

She gauges him for a moment. He sounds sincere. And she has to let him start managing his own freaking health at some point. He's an adult. She leans close, and she kisses him. "Okay," she says. "But you better keep that promise."

He smiles at her. "Yes, Meredith," he says.

She stares at the crowd with a sigh. Between the Rolexes and the shiny cufflinks and the diamonds, she knows she's looking at money. Time to start schmoozing. And begging. For said money. "Well, first, I need alcohol," she says, glowering at them all. "Lots and lots of alcohol." She hates this part. She hates begging.

"You fundraiser," Derek says. "I'll get it."

She raises a surprised pair of eyebrows, but she doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth. "Okay," she says. "Thanks."

"Where?" he says.

She points across the room to the bar. "Over there."

He gives her a grin, and she watches him wade through the crowd toward the bar. She wonders what he's going to get for her. She wonders if he even knows how to ask for it. But she supposes these are the kinds of things he's going to have to figure out, because as much as she wants to be there for him, smoothing his transition back into the world, she can't be there all the time, explaining everything.

She glances at the groups of people congregating. She sees Maggie, Callie, Alex, all working different crowds. More glancing. She sees Amelia. Richard. Miranda. She tries to find a group not already being picked at for funding like carcasses for vultures, finds her mark, and descends.

Two silver foxes and three ladies. Having a political discussion that makes her want to kick puppies. She hates politics. And any talk of D.C. just reminds her of the months her marriage was in shambles. And the fact that if it weren't for D.C., Derek would be fine, now. But she sucks it up and jumps into the conversation with a cheery introduction. She dials up her charm as high as it will go, which is sadly not as high as Derek's, when he's in full-charm mode. For schmoozing and crap like this, Derek is the superior marksman.

Or, he was, she thinks. And she's not sure if that's something he'll ever get back. Part of being charming enough to suck money out of people is being articulate, and he's … not. Not anymore.

When Derek returns, he's carrying a margarita for her, and scotch in a tumbler for him. She smiles as he hands her the glass with the lime. "How did you …?" she says, a whisper against his ear, more than a little astonished.

He shrugs. "I ask for something with tequila."

"Thank you," she says. She kisses him. And then she tips back her margarita and gulps the whole thing down in one breath.

"That's quite a constitution you have there," Silver Fox One says, grinning sleazily at her like he's thinking about her naked.

"Don't you kind of need it to get through these events?" Meredith says.

Silver Fox Two snorts with laughter. Lady One turns to Derek with a sinful smile and holds out her hand to him. "And just who might you be?" she says with a husky smoker's voice. The odor of cigarettes is only half-concealed by the woman's overpowering perfume, and Derek coughs.

"This is my husband, Derek Shepherd," Meredith says, and Lady One has the good sense to withdraw, at least, because there's no freaking way Meredith's watching Derek kiss this woman's hand.

"Oh, are you a surgeon, too?" Lady Two says.

A long, long pause follows, just like when Callie greeted Derek at the door for her dinner party. It's like he can't get his mouth to move, and there's a flash of distress in his eyes Meredith's not sure whether she's imagining. A red hue begins to creep across his face. "I … was," Derek manages in a wispy voice far different than the one he described her margarita with. "Neurosurgeon."

"Retired?" Lady Three says.

Derek swallows. The red is deepening. His lips move for a few seconds before he manages a terse, quiet, "Yes," and the pervading sense of wrongness Meredith feels watching this exchange magnifies.

"Have you heard of the hospital's new pro bono initiative for the underprivileged?" she says, trying to drag the attention away from him. Her gambit works, and everybody turns to her.

"No, I hadn't heard about that," Silver Fox Two says.

Lady Two nods. "Yes, tell us about that. That sounds like a tax write-off if we donate."

Meredith resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, it's considered a 501(c)."

Her distraction is a success, and the whole lot of them focus on her while she tells them about the hospital's program. She doesn't miss how Derek sags with relief when he's back to being an ignored piece of human scenery. He leaves to refill her drink, bless that man, and the night drags. And drags. And drags. Derek doesn't say much. From the glazed look on his face, she's pretty sure that the parts he understands are more boring to him than watching paint dry, and the rest of the discussion flies right over his head, but unlike with Callie's party, he knew to expect that going into this thing, and he's doing what she's asked. He's being moral support, refilling her drink now and then, offering her a friendly face to help her through this torture.

* * *

"Somebody shoot me," Callie moans, and she kicks back a shot of vodka.

Meredith sighs. "I would if I had a gun."

"Thanks," Callie says, tone glum. "You're sweet."

"Want another?" Derek says, gesturing at Callie's empty shot glass.

Callie sighs. "You're even **sweeter**. But, no, thanks. If I get too drunk, I won't be able to beg." She sighs. "Or, I will, but it'll be really pathetic, and I'll probably cry."

Meredith pats her shoulder. "There, there," she quips, and Callie snorts.

They huddle by a high-top table, taking a brief timeout from the money grubbing. The stupid disco ball sends sparkles spinning around the room in a dizzy kaleidoscope. Tragedy plays in the background and Meredith thinks, _how did the DJ know?_ And then she snorts at her own stupid joke, and she sucks down the margarita Derek just retrieved for her. He's fantabulous moral support, if she does say so herself, and she does. She gives him a smile and kisses him.

"Hey, guys," Owen says as he approaches them. "How's it going?"

"They want gun," Derek says.

Owen snorts. "Well, it'll be over soon," he says. "And, just think. You get new toys with this money."

"All the good toys go to neuro," Meredith grumbles.

"I think probably not anymore," Callie says, pointing at Amelia across the room. Though they can't hear what she's saying, the cadence of her nervous babbling reaches them, and it seems like she's choking under pressure. Her expression is a wide-eyed, panicked one. "Derek was the schmoozer."

Owen sighs. "I'll save her, I guess." He looks at Derek. "Oh, Derek, did you watch the Mariners game yesterday?"

"Yes," Derek says.

"Wasn't that incredible? The bang-bang play at the end where Hernandez got tagged out? So heartbreaking. I can't believe the Yankees walked away with that. Though, I guess that makes you happy. Are you still a Yankees fan?"

"I …," Derek says. "What …?" He mouths some of the words, but he's lost at sea without a life vest, even with a long pause to think it out. Meredith wishes she could help him, but to her, Owen's words were Greek, too. Bang-bang play? What the hell is a bang-bang play? And, damn it, Owen knows that's way too much verbiage to throw at Derek at once. Even if the words made sense, it's too much. "What …?" Derek repeats.

But Owen is pulled away before he can explain what he means, and Meredith sighs. The first time one of Derek's surgeon friends tries to talk to him about something not surgeon-y, and it's still freaking gibberish. Her heart squeezes when he deflates as he watches Owen go. Derek covers up his disappointment with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes when he notices her looking at him.

Crap. Derek needs a friend who doesn't know him from before. One who won't have any preconceived notions about what Derek **should** be like based on what Derek **used** to be like.

That's what Derek needs. Meredith, though, needs another margarita. Stat.

* * *

She's buried in conversation with another group of rich socialites. Derek's away, grabbing her some snacks from the buffet table. When she looks up, she sees him by the bar. An intern she kind of recognizes, a blond man, stands shoulder to shoulder with Derek, and Derek turns toward the intern with his eyebrows raised like he's being spoken to. She doesn't see the rest of the exchange, but when Derek comes back to her with sandwiches, he looks … wrong.

Not tired wrong. Not this-is-too-much-can-we-stop-now wrong. Upset wrong.

He hands her his scavenged snack bundle and a fresh margarita without speaking. She catches his dark, wet gaze for all of a second before he drops it to the floor to stare at his shiny shoes. He looks like … _I said leave! Meredith, leave!_ She shakes the awful memory from her head. She breaks off her chat with the potential donors and steps away from them.

"What's wrong?" she says, huddling close to him. "You look like someone shot your dog or something."

He pinches the bridge of his nose and swallows. "… What?" he says in a frustrated tone that far outweighs one misinterpreted sentence. This is the kind of frustration he reserves for prolonged lack of comprehension.

She squeezes his shoulder. "You look upset," she amends.

He takes a long time to respond, and she bites her lip as she watches him struggle to spit out, "I'm … f-fine." Which is weird. Just weird. He's been fine all night except for that shaky bit with the socialites, and now he's acting like he's been forced to speak nonstop for an hour. In the blink of an eye. There wasn't even a gradual slide that she noticed.

"We should go," she says, frowning. She glances at her watch. "I think I've made a long enough appearance."

He shifts from foot to foot. "No," he says. "N-no. I'm **fine**." He takes a deep breath and blows it out, and he gives her a smile that looks ghastly when the rest of him seems so freaking wrong. "Please … fund … raiser."

She bites her lip, staring at him. This is **so** wrong, but … what? What the hell is wrong?

"Derek," she says.

She's ready to put her foot down, because the hairs on the back of her neck are standing on end, and she feels like she's missed something crucial, but he puts his hand on her shoulder, and he looks her in the eyes with a pained gaze. "I don't … need … stop … now." He swallows. "Stop. To stop."

They share a long look.

He promised. He promised he would tell her if he needs to stop. He seems upset, yes. He seems frustrated. Yes. But … he doesn't seem over-sensitized, certainly nowhere near a mental shutdown.

She takes a leap of faith, and she chooses to believe him.

* * *

"I've heard he's here with her tonight," another intern who's leaning against the buffet table says as she munches on some sliced Muenster cheese. Meredith kind of recognizes her. The woman has red hair – carrot-y colored, not a deep red like Addison – and a thick sprawl of freckles like bits of confetti on her face. "Have you seen him?"

At first Meredith thinks the redhead's talking to her, but when she looks up, she sees a second intern next to the redhead, the blond guy she saw talking to Derek a while ago, so she dives back into her search. Somewhere on this table are these little ham sandwich things that Derek keeps bringing her, and they're to freaking die for. Her stomach rumbles as she searches through shrimp cocktails and blintzes and meats and crackers and other _amuse-bouches_.

The blond intern laughs. "He is. I talked to him."

The redhead's eyes widen. "Seriously? I heard he's almost mute, now. And stupid."

Blondie nods. " **So** stupid. Ask him about the Shepherd Method," he says with a sneer. "He gets tied in knots in seconds."

Ginger shakes her head. "Can you imagine marrying a surgical god one day, and the next day he's a mouth breather?"

Meredith's eyes narrow as she realizes what the hell she's hearing. She grabs two of the ham sandwiches from the tray she just found and stuffs them into her napkin, and then she turns to them, seething. She wants to argue with them. Wants to defend Derek. And herself. But she knows it's pointless. The snark and teasing comes in waves, it feels like. She's been dealing with it since Derek woke up. Apparently, her husband waking up loses her the blanket sympathy card, because instead of sitting vigil by her dying husband, now, she's saddled with damaged goods forever. At least, that's how they look at it. The people who don't know her. Or him. The immature idiots with no compassion who have no problem confusing Derek for sport.

But there is something she **can** do.

She clears her throat. Both interns turn to her, eyes going wide like pie plates when they realize who she is. "Names," she snaps. "Tell me. And don't lie to me. I'll find out if you do."

"Dr. Grey," Blondie says. "Um. This isn't what it sounded like-"

"Yes, it is." She has no patience for this. She steps into their space, giving them the iciest glare she can manage. "Names. Now."

"Devon Plank," says Blondie.

Ginger spits out, "Mandy Shaw."

Meredith gives them a moment to sweat. A long, long moment. "Dr. Plank," she says, nodding to the blond. She shifts her gaze to the redhead. "Dr. Shaw." Another moment to sweat. "I'll see you both on Monday." Hell, she'll let them sweat all damned weekend. They deserve it. "Tell your resident Medusa wants you on her service for a while."

She leaves them there, staring at her departing back like she's just told them she'll be harvesting their organs for science next week. And she lets herself smile. Just a little.

* * *

She finds Derek as he comes out of the restroom. "I'm ready to go," she says. The tipsy feeling she got from the margaritas has worn off, and she feels safe to drive.

"You … you are … you are … you're done?" he says. He hasn't regained his equilibrium since that asshole intern cornered him.

She nods. "I'm done."

She's not sure what to say to him as they wait in the drizzly dark while the parking attendant retrieves their car. She thinks, if Derek wanted her to know about Dr. Plank teasing him, he'd tell her, and he hasn't. Not one word.

She wraps her arms around him, opting not to pry him open like an unwilling clam. "Hey," she says. She grins, and she looks at him through the fringe of her eyelashes. He's been there for her all night, despite the immense pile of crap he's been dealt for his trouble.

He looks at her. His eyes are azure traps. "What?"

She grabs his tux for leverage, leans, and kisses him, drinking him in. The scent of his cologne coils in her throat. "I think you're the best moral support I've ever had," she says. "Just FYI."

He takes a second, figuring that out, but then his gaze softens. "You're … welcome," he says.

They stand arm in arm, waiting for the car.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Notes:**

Thanks so much for the feedback, everybody!

* * *

 **Week thirteen.**

Her day is a giant pile of suck that keeps on sucking, and it starts when Derek shows up in the emergency room. Not Derek. Not really. But his doppelgänger has dark hair and shocking blue eyes that shine like seawater in sunshine, and he looks at her with a terrified, pain-filled gaze. He's been in a car accident, t-boned by a drunk driver, and the left side of his head is covered in blood. One pupil is blown. His chest and abdomen are one massive bruise, which means he's bleeding internally. He's tachycardic. His breathing sounds gurgle-y. He's shivering. And he's going to die.

She holds his hand, squeezes it, and she looks him in the eyes. He stares back with the eye that can still stare. "Charles, you're not alone. I'm right here," she says, trying to offer him some comfort in his last few minutes. "We're going to get you into an OR, soon. I'll be here with you the whole way."

He doesn't speak, but his fingers tighten around hers, and she likes to think she made it better. As better as dying can be, anyway. She sends him straight to the OR without stopping for an MRI. He doesn't have time for an MRI. Or a CT. Or anything. He's going to die. She knows it. But he's not dead, yet, and on the off chance she's wrong, she'll fight like a lioness for him.

She chases after his gurney as the orderlies rush him into OR 7. Dr. Weller is already scrubbing in for the save when Meredith dashes into the room, stands at the sink beside him, and picks up a bar of soap. Dr. Weller nods at her, but neither speaks. It's a tense, urgent silence.

Dr. Weller had a head start, and he dashes into the OR before Meredith finishes soaping up, but he stops midway to the table and slumps. Meredith hears the snap discharge of the defibrillators, but the doppelgänger guy's injuries are bad enough that the OR staff doesn't try for more than a few minutes to resuscitate him. By the time Meredith gets into the OR, too, Charles is gone, and Dr. Weller is calling time of death.

The sound of Charles's flatline guts her in a visceral way that most flatlines don't even approach. Because Charles wasn't Derek, but he was. She can imagine Derek on a gurney in an ER, terrified, alone, wanting competent help, but there's nobody to help him. She knows he was conscious after the accident from the paramedic report, and she's left wondering what his last few minutes were like. The minutes where Meredith and Derek and their huge ugly beautiful epic history were still a complete tapestry in his head. She wonders if he wished she was there. Or if he wanted his family. Or if he worried about Zola and Bailey. She wonders if he knew he would die like she knew Charles would die. And before she can stop herself, she's gone all the way down the rabbit hole, imagining, and she has to excuse herself to fall apart in a supply closet, because she can't breathe.

And things only get worse from there.

* * *

She loses three more patients in a row, all to horrible things she has no hope of fixing. It's like Fate is telling her, "Fuck you!" today. Worse, she sees a little of Derek in every single one of them.

* * *

When she gets home, her head is throbbing, and she's about an inch away from collapse. She's tired, and she wants to cry, and the one thing she's looked forward to all day is seeing Derek alive. Derek alive and fine and spending time with their children while he recuperates from his horrible but non-fatal accident.

The nanny greets her, they exchange quick pleasantries, and then Meredith is alone for the remainder of the evening with her family. Zola's nowhere to be seen, probably playing in her room, and Bailey's stacking blocks into precarious towers on the living room floor, only to mow them down with one of his toy dinosaurs. Derek's sitting on the couch. He's pulled the end table in front of him and tipped it toward his lap, and he's scrubbing hard enough at something on the surface that his body shakes. When she gets closer, she smells furniture polish.

"Hey," she says as she approaches. She's too tired to smile at him, even though the mere act of seeing him relieves some of her awful tension. She's looking forward to dropping onto the couch next to him, her alive husband, and forgetting for a little while that the world sucks, forgetting that she's watched four Dereks die today.

He stops scrubbing and looks up at her. "Hello," he says, gaze softening. He takes a long, discerning look at her, and frowns. "Why sad?"

And she sighs. This is what she's needed all day. Him. Doing his Derek-y thing. She plops down onto the couch beside him. "I've had a bad day," she says.

"Oh," he says. He sets his stained rag onto the table and tips the table upright. He pulls her into his arms. "I'm sorry," he adds, and she melts against him. His body is warm and solid, and hearing the rustle of his breaths in his chest against her ear is a balm to her bruised soul.

She peers over his arm with a spacing, blurry gaze into the living room. "Hi, Mommy," the Bailey blob on the rug says.

"Hi, Bailey," she says.

Her eyes dip closed, and almost sixty seconds pass before she can find the strength to yank them open again. She can't afford to fall asleep right now, or she'll never sleep tonight. She gives herself a shake.

The world snaps back into focus. Her gaze shifts to the table Derek was polishing. From the look of it, he was trying to get rid of some of the telltale rings left behind by condensation from drinking glasses. Her eyes drift to the furniture polish, and then to the rag.

For a moment, thoughts don't connect, and she looks at the rag in peace. Then she freezes. That can't be what it looks like. She pulls out of Derek's embrace, snapping upright, and she makes a grab for the rag. It's covered with furniture polish. Ruined. Her fingers tighten around the wet, stained cotton. The sight of it is a knife in her heart.

"Why would you use this?" she says. She turns to Derek, sees him pondering her question like she's asked him what the fifty-seventh decimal place for pi is, not about something simple like cleaning-supply choices. She shakes the rag at him. "Why, Derek?" she demands.

His mouth opens and closes. He may not be the best with words, but he's more than receptive to emotion, and he wilts like a flower under her negative scrutiny. "I thought … polish needs cloth …," he says, the words halting.

"This isn't just a cloth!" she snaps. "This is .…" A lump forms in her throat. "Where the hell did you get this?"

Derek's flummoxed. "My … drawer. I .… I'm sorry. Is yours? I didn't … meaned … touch … your things."

"No, this is **yours**!"

"But .…"

"This is your scrub cap," she clarifies. And it's ruined. It's covered with brown furniture polish. "Your favorite scrub cap."

"What … is … scrub cap?" he says, another knife in her heart.

"It's what you wear," she says, voice cracking. "When you're performing a surgery. Over your hair. It's … it's what you wear." Her fingers squeeze around the stained cap. "You wore this."

He blinks. He shifts from side to side as he gets more agitated. "… Okay," he says, but it's not okay. It's not okay at all. He sounds baffled.

"It's sentimental!" she says.

"What is … sentimental?"

"It means a lot to you," she says.

His breaths funnel in his chest. "But … it's cloth. It's .…" He stares at the scrub cap, distressed, like he's trying so hard to understand, but can't grasp it. Can't grasp why certain fabric should be special. But he knows he should know, because Meredith is bleeding discord from her pores.

"You have a lot of good memories associated with this," Meredith insists. "This is your favorite scrub cap. You saved Izzie's life wearing this scrub cap. You .…"

"But … I don't remember," he says. "How can …? I don't .…"

His voice is deep and low and upset, and he's shifting back and forth in his seat like an explosion is pending, and if she had any sense left at all, she'd stop right there, but she can't, because it's his freaking scrub cap. The defining piece of his professional career; who knows how many lives it's seen changed? Who knows how many times it's heard Derek say, "It's a beautiful day to save lives," something he'll probably never say again, because he doesn't remember saying it?

"It's your cap, Derek!" she repeats, desperate. "It's your ferryboat scrub cap."

He pulls shaky fingers through his hair. "I don't **remember**." He looks at her. His frustration spreads a red mottle across his face. "I have no remember. Remember. Memory. It's not … not … sen … sen … sentimental. I d-don't .…"

"And the fact that it **used** to be sentimental means **nothing** to you?" Meredith says. "Nothing at all?"

Something inside him breaks. He's an avalanche in the waiting, but in this moment, he's pings of snow beginning to slide. "No," he says, the word dark and hating.

"How **could** you?" she says, and then she's crying, sobbing, holding his ruined scrub cap, because now it feels like five Dereks have died, not four, and the fifth one isn't a lookalike. She's lashing out at him. She shouldn't be. She knows it. But nobody knows everything this cap has seen because the only person who would know is Derek, and that Derek is dead, and she can't breathe. "You're supposed to get me. You always get me. Why can't you just **get** this?"

The tightly packed snow gives way, and he barrels down the mountain in a sweep of ruin. "Because I'm not … **remember** ," he roars so loud it makes her cringe backward into the cushion, and she feels the knife stab again. That Derek is **dead**. "I'm **not** surgeon!" Another stab. "I don't understand!" Another. He swallows. "I don't .… I don't .…" He blinks. Tears jag down his face. "I don't .…"

And then he's gone in a torrent of anger and tantrum and upset, and a door slams somewhere in the back of the house, the final _coup de grace_ that leaves her devastated. Gushing blood from every emotional wound. Crying. Bailey's crying on the carpet, too, and she doesn't know what to do.

"Mommy?" Zola says as she peers into the room, a wide-eyed look of distress pasted on her face, and Meredith doesn't know what to do at all.

* * *

By the time she gets the kids calmed down, assures them that Mommy and Daddy are just having a disagreement and that nothing is wrong beyond that, Meredith feels like crap. Worse than crap. Crap in the middle of a busy road, getting run over by cars at odd intervals.

She's known on a conceptual level since her meeting with Dr. Wyatt that Derek's history is gone. Not gone as in away, but will come back. Gone as in a euphemism for dead. Derek's history is dead. But she's never seen such a horrific reminder of that fact before. Not until this. Almost everything he was before the accident is just … gone. It's gone. All of it.

The scrub cap lies in a ruined, crumpled heap on the end table.

She didn't mean to pick a fight with Derek. And she didn't mean to make him feel bad about his cognitive difficulties. She didn't mean to do **any** of this.

But looking at the forgotten scrub cap makes her burst into tears all over again.

She knows how he could do that. She knows. But she's left thinking, "How could he **do** that?" Over and over and over again like a ringing gong, anyway.

She doesn't think she can talk to Derek right now, not without saying something she'll regret, so she doesn't try.

* * *

She feeds the kids dinner. Derek doesn't reappear.

* * *

It's not until after the kids are in bed that she makes her first attempt at talking with him like a rational adult. He's not in their bedroom, nor is he in the guest bedroom he commandeered as his. She finds him in his office.

In his office that looks like a bomb went off in it.

"Derek, what are you …?" Her voice trails away as she watches him pull a manila folder out of his desk drawer. He glances at it with a dispassionate gaze, and then he rips it down the middle. And then he takes those pieces and rips those down the middle. And then he tosses the quadrants away like trash, where they land with the other mangled confetti and refuse. Everything in this office, every last piece of Derek's professional life, every medical book, every picture with a doctor in it, every published journal article, including his Shepherd Method paper, every award, every saved case workup, even his diplomas, all three of them. If it's paper, and he can get his hands on it, he's torn it up and left it in shreds on the floor.

"Derek," she croaks. "Derek, stop." He won't look at her. Another folder gets ripped up right in front of her eyes. "Derek, please. Please, please, stop." She should have come to find him sooner. She tries to step across the minefield on the floor. She should have-

She skips to a halt, horrified, when her foot kicks a hardback book sleeve. _Gray's Anatomy_ _._ His favorite professor in med school gave him that book with a lovely handwritten note on the title page as a sendoff gift when he graduated. All the pages have been ripped out and shredded. All of them. Even the one with the note on it. He's ripped up pictures, too. Irreplaceable pictures of Mark in scrubs, Mark and Derek in scrubs, Derek in scrubs hugging patients he's helped. Any picture that looks halfway medical.

"Derek," she says, " **s** **top**."

He looks up at her, finally, and her stomach feels like it's dropping out from her body, because she doesn't think she's ever seen him look at her like that. Not even when he was batting her engagement ring into the woods. Not even when he looked her in the eye and called her a lemon. She's not even sure what to call the emotion she's looking at. Hate. Frustration. Dejection. Hopelessness. None of those really fit, and yet, they all do.

"Why?" he says in a dark tone. "Because it's sen … sentimental?"

"Yes," she says in a soft voice because she's so upset she can't muster more than croaky pleading. "Please, stop."

He snorts. He holds up the next folder. It's full of journal articles Derek pulled when brainstorming for future research projects. "I can't read … this," Derek says. "I don't … … understand this. I don't … know what it … … is." He blinks. The wetness in his eyes jags into tears. "I try be … me … your remember. I try. But I'm not … same. I'm not. I'm not … …. I don't .… I'm never .…" His voice trails away into silence as he gets too tangled to speak. His glare could burn to cinders what little he hasn't already torn up, but she gets the impression his glare is directed at something inanimate, not her. Something internal.

"Maybe it's not sentimental to you, anymore," she says, "but, please, Derek. Please. It's sentimental to me." _It's all I have left_ , she's about to say. To him. Which would be dumping gas on a flame. She bites her tongue.

"You miss your remember," he says. A stressed grimace. "Remember. **Memory**."

She doesn't nod. Doesn't say yes. But in this moment, she does. She misses him so much she hurts.

He puts the folder back in the drawer instead of ripping it up, and he steps out from behind his desk. She sidesteps from the doorway to give him a clear path. The pile of wreckage on the floor makes it hard for him to navigate with his cane. He stops at the doorway, inches from her, breathing hard.

"I wish … I am … m … mem. Memory," he says in a shaky, defeated tone. "I wish .…"

And then he leaves her once again. He's left her with gaping wounds. She realizes now, though, that she's done the same to him. Maybe worse.

* * *

He doesn't sleep in their bedroom that night. He retreats to the guest room for the first time in five weeks.

* * *

He won't come out of his room the next morning. He hasn't locked the door, and she worries when he doesn't answer her queries for signs of life, so she dares to check in on him. He's curled up under the blankets. His codeine bottle sits out on the nightstand.

"Derek?" she says.

At first, he doesn't respond, and she thinks he's sleeping. "Go away," he mutters.

She doesn't listen to him, thinks … maybe. Maybe, they can chat this out. She sits on the mattress beside the lump, right about where his shoulder should be, and she touches him through the comforter. The covers erupt into movement. He flips over so his back faces her, and he resettles.

"Derek, please," she says, swallowing against the lump in her throat. "Will you talk to me?"

And that's when she hears it. A soft sniffle. Another. When she puts her hand back on the blankets, she can feel his body jerking underneath the covers. He's being quiet about it, but he's weeping. She's seen tears escape before. She's seen him cry. But she's never seen Derek express the kind of grief that has his whole body moving with each sucking inhalation. Never. Not ever. The idea of him being that upset strips her raw, and she can't think of anything to say that might make it better.

"I wish I have … no … remember," he says in a thick, upset voice, a bit slurred with painkillers. "I wish .…"

"Why?" she says.

A long silence stretches. "Please, go away," he says, hoarse, croaky, begging.

She doesn't want to, but she's already ignored him once, and she doesn't want to press him too hard.

She leaves, and she cancels his rehab appointment on the way to work.

* * *

"I … did something stupid," Meredith says, staring at her tray. Her food is unappetizing. Her stomach churns. She couldn't eat breakfast this morning, can't eat this second attempt, either. After all their progress, Derek's hiding in the guest room again, and he's ripped up every old memory he can get his hands on, and he's crying, and it's all so horribly wrong again.

Alex shovels Raisin Bran into his mouth. "What'dja do?"

"I had a horrible day, yesterday."

He nods. "Four checkouts is rough."

She swallows. Buries her face in her hands. The cafeteria bustles around them. "I took it out on Derek. I … wasn't flexible."

"You yelled at him?" Alex says.

Meredith nods. "For something he can't help."

"Did you try apologizing?"

She sighs. "What the hell do I even say?"

"You could try starting with, 'I'm sorry, Derek.'"

"That's completely inadequate for what I did."

He shrugs. "Better than doing nothing and stewing about what you might do."

"Alex," she croaks, and suddenly she finds herself falling apart again. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how I can be … all these things."

He drops his spoon into his cereal bowl and looks up at her. "What things?"

But she can't describe them. Her feelings. There are so many jumbled in a box, and they make a cacophony. None of them should happen together – grief/anger/sympathy/hate/love/yearning/fear/relief/gratefulness/hope/hopelessness – but there they all are, screaming in her head, and she has no idea what to do.

* * *

She intends to apologize when she gets home, but this time he's locked the door, and according to the nanny, he hasn't come out all day. Not even to get food. She spends another night alone.

* * *

At work on Thursday, toward the tail end of her shift, Meredith gets a text from the nanny, _"_ _Migraine_ _."_ Meredith closes her eyes. This week can't possibly get worse.

* * *

Since he hasn't moved back into their bedroom, yet, she sleeps in the guest room with him. He's in too much pain to talk much or listen, so she doesn't try to apologize then, either. At least, he doesn't tell her to go away. She lies next to him, pulling her fingers through his hair, wondering how things crashed down around her so quickly. She shouldn't have yelled at him for the freaking scrub cap. She knows it. That was the ultimate in victim blaming, and now he's suffering for her temper, and why does this have to be so freaking hard?

He's still immobile with pain, so she cancels his rehab appointment on Friday, too.

"I wish I die," he says while she lies beside him for a bit after her shift.

His words send a spear of ice through her. With his tendency to strip verb tenses when he's a wreck, she can't tell if he means he wishes he could die to avoid this migraine pain, or if he wishes he'd died on impact. The first option breaks her heart. The second option scares the crap out of her. She tightens her grip around his hand.

"Please, don't say that," she says, and she can't hold any of it in anymore. "I'm so sorry for what I said."

But he doesn't respond except to curl away and pull his pillow over his head, as though her words hurt like nails in his ears. She feels like she might throw up. She leaves him alone for a while.

* * *

She sits in the living room, pinching the bridge of her nose. The kids know something is wrong, and the wrongness has bled into the atmosphere of the house. The air feels thick, and awful, and suffocating. She clutches the phone receiver to her face and sighs.

"I think we need to postpone your fishing visit thing," Meredith says.

"Oh?" Richard says, tone made tinny by the phone's speaker. "Why?"

Richard went out of his way to set his whole Saturday aside for this, and this sucks. All of this sucks. "He's had an awful week, and he got a migraine on Thursday. He's still in a lot of pain. I doubt he'll be up for company before Sunday."

"I can't make it on Sunday," Richard says.

Meredith nods. "I understand. Maybe, next weekend, instead?"

"I'll see what I can do," Richard says. "I'm sorry he's not feeling well."

"Me, too," she whispers into the receiver long after the line has disconnected. She sits with the phone pressed against her ear, fighting not to fall apart.

"Mommy?" Bailey says as he toddles to the couch. His voice is warble-y and uncertain, and he's carrying his security blanket with him. She drops the phone onto the cushions, leans over, picks him up, and pulls him into her arms.

"Hi, Bailey," she croaks.

She kisses his forehead. She needs this right now. Comforting. She thinks Bailey got the same comfort gene Derek seems to have. She hopes so. It's a great gene to have.

"Use banky," Bailey suggests, pushing his careworn yellow blanket at her. "Banky fix it."

She smiles at him. "Thanks, Bailey; that's really sweet of you."

"Wehcome," Bailey says.

Comfort gene. Check.

* * *

Derek hits the listless, groggy, slow-thinking stage on Saturday morning. She watches the kids while he sleeps.

* * *

When she comes out of her office on Saturday evening, she freezes in the hallway that leads to the living room. Sometime between her putting Bailey to bed and now, Derek's emerged from hibernation. She can hear the soft cadence of his voice, and Zola's cherub responses as they talk in quiet tones.

She slips into the living room and sits down in the chair across from them. She doesn't speak, doesn't interrupt, but Derek looks up from his lace-tying lesson. She can't read what he's thinking, but he's not glaring, at least. And he's not hiding.

"Daddy, what now?" Zola says, dragging his attention back to her.

"Make one ear," he instructs, gathering the left shoelace of his left shoe into a loop. He's taken off his right shoe, and Zola is wearing it on her foot. Well, wading in it.

Zola watches him make the loop and copies him.

"Make another ear," he says, gathering his right shoelace.

Zola copies, and then they both have two loops each.

"What does this look like?" he says.

Zola grins. "A bunny!"

He nods. "Right. Now, loop through."

She tries to follow his instructions, tries to imitate his physical movement, but she's not as nimble. He ends with a perfect bow, and she ends with loose spaghetti. He pulls back, flexing the fingers of his right hand.

"Daddy, I can't do this," Zola says. She sniffles.

He pulls her into a hug. "You will get it," he says. He shakes his head; at what, Meredith can't guess. "Try again."

Zola sighs, but she gathers her laces again. He shifts so he's crouching over her, guiding from behind this time instead of using his own shoe as a teaching tool. "What first?" he says.

"Make bunny ears," Zola says, and she does.

"Now, what?"

"Loop through."

He nods, and with his fingers guiding hers, she manages this time.

"Now, pull," he instructs.

She manages a lop-sided bow, but a bow nonetheless. Her eyes bug out, and she looks up at him, beaming, all her baby teeth on display. "Daddy, I did it! Daddy, look!"

Derek smiles an easy smile that melts Meredith like a marshmallow over a fire. "I see!" he says. He hugs her and gives her a kiss on the forehead. "Great job!"

"Mommy, Mommy, see?" Zola says, turning to Meredith to show her the laces on Derek's sneaker. "I tied the grownup shoe!"

"I saw," Meredith says, grinning. "I saw! Daddy was really nice to show you how to do that, wasn't he?"

Zola beams and throws her arms around him, almost tripping as her foot comes out of Derek's gigantic shoe. "Thank you! I'm gonna go show Twilight Sparkle!"

Meredith glances at her watch. "I think it's bed time, Zozo," she says.

"Just let me show Twilight Sparkle, first!" Zola says, and she bounds off to her bedroom with Derek's shoe clutched in her hands.

Derek sits on the floor, a pleased grin on his face. "Who taught you that?" Meredith says, a hesitant interjection. She knows he learned in rehab, but she never thought about how, before. One day, he could just do it.

Derek glances at her. His smile bleeds away, and guilt coils in her stomach. "Dean help." Dean is his occupational therapist.

"You're a good teacher," Meredith says.

He snorts like he doesn't believe her.

"You are, Derek. You always have been."

And that's the wrong thing to say all over again, apparently, because what little is left of his good mood shatters, and he says, "Please, stop, Meredith. Mere. Please."

Her throat hurts. "Stop what?" she says. "Derek, what am I doing that's upsetting you?"

"You keep compare," he says. He blinks, and then he's crying all over again. "I can't. I can't .…" He swallows. "I can't be your remember, and I-" He clears his throat with a thick, upset croak. "I don't remember."

She slides onto the floor, scoots across the rug, and pulls him into her arms. "I don't want you to be my memory of you."

"The scrub cap .…" he says.

"Sometimes, I miss the person you used to be," she says. "I grieve for him, and that grief makes me say **stupid** things. But that's not me trying to shoehorn you into being someone you're not."

He wipes his face. "Shoehorn .…"

"Force."

"Oh," he says. He sniffs. "I feel … shoehorn."

"I'm so sorry," she says, a lump forming in her throat. "I don't mean to make you feel that way."

"Everyone compare me … to … to .…"

"Derek, **I'm** not comparing," she says as her eyes water. "I mean I am, but not like how you mean it. I'm not trying to hold you to a previous standard."

"Then … how?"

She pulls her fingers through his hair. "I'm getting to **know** you again," she says. She kisses him. "This new Derek who hates the Clash and beer, and likes junk food and the color green, but who's still an optimist, and loves ferryboats, and supports me, and is great with our children. I'm not finding you lacking, Derek. I'm falling in love with you all over again, and I'm enjoying the hell out of myself."

He grunts and wipes his face. "Pause," he says, thick and dark and weeping. "I … pause."

She hugs him so hard he coughs. She wishes she could communicate this to him without words, somehow. Explain this in a way he can understand without so much struggle. She kisses him.

"I don't .…" He presses his face into her shoulder. "I don't understand."

"Some things about you are different. Some things are the same," she says, trying to pare down her words. "I'm just trying to learn which is which. Okay?"

He's silent for a long moment before he says, "… Okay."

She kisses him again. "It's fun for me, finding out what's new. New isn't bad."

"Oh," he says.

"The new you isn't bad," she repeats for emphasis. "I love you."

He sighs. "I don't think … people agree."

"The people who don't agree aren't worth caring about, Derek," she says. "They're just freaking not."

He doesn't respond to that except to say, "I'm tired, Mere."

She strokes his arm. "I know."

She wishes she could take all this away. His feelings of inadequacy. His crushing isolation. Her cacophony. But she can't. She can't **anything** except wait for it to pass.

* * *

He returns to their bed Saturday night. She welcomes him without comment.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Notes:**

Thank you so much for the feedback. I can't reply individually to people who don't log in, so I just wanted to add a public thank you specifically to MerDerLuvr, Mecawa, Clara, Patsy, Paz, Juli, CG, Michelle, and all the anonymous folks. Your comments really made my day, and I appreciated them so much! Thank you!

Anyway, chapter 13 was a rough chapter. It's one of the chapters I would have considered posting a warning for, but when I posted a general poll on Twitter, people were unanimously against story warnings. If you want to get warned in the future for rough chapters like that, let me know in a PM here or on Twitter, and I'll try to accommodate you privately :)

Posting early tonight because Shonda sucks, and I thought you might like a pick-me-up.

Please be sure to read the note at the end of this chapter once you get there!

* * *

 **Week fourteen.**

He sleeps until 3 p.m. on Sunday. He doesn't talk. He seems too worn out to bother.

The day is an idyllic, sunny, breezy 80 degrees, and the kids spend most of the daylight hours playing on the swing set and making sand cities in the big sand pit outside. Meredith leaves the sliding door open so she can hear if there are any problems, and she keeps an eye on them from inside, glancing periodically over the top edge of her book at them. Derek spends his afternoon lazing on the couch in his boxers and a t-shirt, watching a baseball game on ESPN with the sound muted. She doesn't like baseball, but she makes a point of sitting next to him while she reads. She's not quite sure how or when it happens, but by the end of the game, she's wrapped under his arm, and his thigh is her bookrest.

* * *

The Monday before Zola starts kindergarten, Briar Cliff Elementary holds a parent-teacher night for the parents of all the new students. Between Meredith's shift running late, though, and shuttling Derek home from rehab, she thinks she won't make it to the school on time. She glances at her watch for the third time in what feels like three minutes. She sighs with irritation as a car pulls in front of her without signaling, and she has to jam on the brakes to keep from rear-ending the lane intruder.

A lump forms in her throat. She doesn't want to be late to this. She doesn't ever want to be Ellis with her children. Not **ever**.

Derek, who hasn't spoken a word since she picked him up, says, "Why … keep … look … watch?" He winces, like he knows what he's said is a butchered, ungrammatical mess, but he doesn't try to fix it, doesn't try to correct himself. From the look of him, he's too tired to bother. Another grueling day in rehab, she thinks, and between that and last week's fight and migraine, he's worn out. Worn out by words and life in general, and she hates that he might be flirting with depression again. His head thunks against the window, and his eyelids dip.

"I have a meeting with Zola's kindergarten teacher tonight," she says. "I'm running late."

He swallows, and he thinks for a long moment, long enough that she wonders if she's lost him somewhere, but then he says, "Will … not … drop me … help?"

Her grip tightens on the steering wheel as she dodges around a slow-moving Prius. Without the extra detour to take Derek home, there's just enough time to be punctual. "Yes," she says, "I think so."

"Go," he says.

She bites her lip. "You're sure? You seem pretty wiped out."

"Important?" he says.

"Yes," she says.

He shrugs. "Go."

She doesn't need further prodding. She passes a gleaming cherry-colored Corvette that looks like Mark's. She can't help the idle thought that, maybe, he's watching them from … somewhere. Which is stupid, sentimental, and irrational, but – she swallows as she sees the car shrink in the rearview mirror – she kind of hopes Mark **is** watching. Derek in particular. She lingers on that idea, heart squeezing as she forces her eyes back onto the road.

Derek watches the scenery blur past them with a disinterested, bleak gaze. "What is … k … kindergarten?" he says.

She blinks. And then it occurs to her she hasn't explained any of this to Derek. The fact that Zola will be going to school for the first time next week. The fact that only Bailey will be home on the weekdays for the foreseeable future. She's mentioned school in passing, and so has Zola, but Meredith hasn't sat Derek down and made sure he understands what Zola going to school means in practice. She didn't even think about the necessity for a discussion about it.

Crap.

* * *

By the time she peals into the school's visitor parking lot, she has Derek grasping the general idea of what Zola-in-school means, and why it's important for her to go, and what this parent-teacher thing tonight is all about, though the explanation has been harder than usual because he's so tired, and he's not processing words well. She grabs her purse from the backseat and scrambles out of the car. She squishes her keys and lanyard into a tight ball, ready to pass them off to Derek, so he can sleep in the car while she deals with this, but when she walks around to his side of the car, she finds him standing beside the Jeep, leaning on his cane like he might tip if he's not careful.

"You're coming with me?" Meredith says, surprised.

He swallows. And he thinks. "I'm … not … allow?" Every syllable is a struggle for him.

"Of course, you're allowed," she says. "I just thought you'd want to sleep."

He shakes his head. "No, I want … see. See. F-for Zo."

She bites her lip. "Derek, there'll be a lot of people here," she says, not wanting to discourage him from participating in his daughter's life, but at the same time, not wanting to watch him break any more than he already has in the last few days. "It might be very noisy."

"Okay," he says. He holds his hand out, and at first, she's not sure what he's expecting her to give him, but then she realizes she's still holding her keys and lanyard ball mashed between her fingers. She thinks he means to sit in the car, after all, but he stuffs the keys in his jeans pocket instead of climbing back into the car. "I … leave if .…" He thinks. "Leave if .…" He struggles for a word that fits. He settles on, "Bad."

She can't stop herself from smiling. He's tired. And he's hurting. And he's struggling. But he wants to do this for Zola, anyway, and that's …. That's .… She brushes wetness out of her eyes with a sweep of her fingertips. The idea that he'll be a dad again someday stands up and steps aside, freeing a mental seat for the idea that he already is one. Right now. Maybe, he doesn't have all of the mechanics down, yet, but the part where he would give his life for his kids in a heartbeat, the keeping them safe part .… He's got that in spades already.

She steps around to his weak side and grabs his hand. His fingers close loosely around hers.

The visitor lot connects with a large sidewalk that cuts through a giant, manicured front lawn, and proceeds to its terminus at the school's long row of front doors. The school itself is a building that stretches like a football field into the distance. Two flagpoles, one for the state flag, and one for the U.S. flag, stand tall in the front, and the flags flap in the wind.

They follow the sparse trail of parents winding in from the visitor lot. Most must already be inside. Derek's moving like a turtle with a busted foot. She forces herself to keep her pace slow, and she tries hard not to keep glancing at her watch, at least not in an obvious way he can see.

By the time they reach the classroom, Derek's about ready to collapse. Despite the obvious gathering of dozens of parents, she double checks the room number on reflex. 107. They're in the right place. The room doesn't have desks like a classroom, but rather large tables with four chairs at each. Every seat is full already, and parents ring the edges of the room. Meredith winces. She doesn't mind standing – as a surgeon, she's more than used to it, even when her feet hurt – but she doesn't think Derek will be able to manage it.

She looks everywhere for a chair, but even the teacher's rolling desk chair has a parent sitting in it already. The only real space left is along the wall by the classroom door, so she moves there. Derek hobbles after her, and when he reaches the wall, he leans his weight against the cinderblocks in a way that says he's not going to make it more than fifteen minutes like this.

One of the parents at the closest table, a leggy knockout of a woman, looks at Derek for all of three seconds, though, her eyes wandering to his favored leg and then his cane, before she stands up and offers him her chair. "Oh, please," the woman says, sympathy in her cobalt-colored eyes, "take mine."

Derek's too tired to protest or act embarrassed. He hobbles the three steps to the chair, and he sinks into the seat with a struggling, "Thank … you."

"Anytime," the woman says.

The woman who gave up her seat takes Derek's place along the wall next to Meredith. She's tall, with an elegant, oval face that ends in a fine-pointed chin, and she can't be more than a size zero. Her hair, too dark to be labeled brown, but too light to be labeled black, twirls up into a messy, spilling ponytail held precariously in place by a black hair clip. She's not wearing makeup, but she's still so freaking pretty Meredith thinks she has to be a supermodel or something. **Has** to be.

Mrs. McModel gives Meredith a wide, gregarious smile that reveals perfect, pearly teeth, but then she shifts like something's bitten her, and her smile disappears. She pulls a pager from her pocket, frowns at it, steps back to the table and leans down close to the ear of the giant man who's sitting next to Derek. She whispers something into the man's ear, the man nods, and then she dashes out of the room.

Meredith frowns. You don't see pagers like that anymore. Most professions have moved on to cellular phones. Hospitals still use them, though. Meredith has a pager. Dr. McModel, then, Meredith thinks. Kind of like Izzie, but even prettier.

Meredith looks at the man Dr. McModel has left behind. Dr. McModel was as tall as Derek - 5'10" or so. This man, though. Holy crap. He's not standing, but she can guess he's around 6'6", give or take an inch or two. He has no meat on him whatsoever, and his shoulder-length, stringy, midnight-colored hair and his thin, pointy face only serve to enhance his long lines. The furniture in the room is built for small children, and he doesn't come close to fitting in the miniature chair. His left knee is mashed up against the table, with his kneecap rising six inches above the table. His other leg sticks straight out into the aisle for a mile. He's wearing a thick, buckled knee brace that covers him mid-thigh to mid-calf, and two crutches rest against the edge of the tiny table. He's a freaking giraffe is what he is. A stubbly, gangly, pale-skinned giraffe whose long, arcing fingers dwarf the blocks he's fiddling with.

"Is this a dirty trick?" the man mutters as he rearranges his blocks again.

Meredith glances at the other tables. They all have blocks like this, though Mr. Giraffe is the only one bothering to play with them. "Is what a dirty trick?" Meredith says, unable to resist asking.

He glances over his shoulder at her. His eyes are black. Not blue-turned-black, like Derek's in the dark, but a deep, dark brown that's almost indistinguishable from his pupils. He gives her a quirky grin. "These blocks," he says. "I swear, they're like those trick birthday candles you can buy." He looks at Derek. "Have you ever tried those? It's hilarious watching the kids have strokes trying to blow them out."

Derek looks back at Mr. Giraffe with a wide-eyed expression that says he has no idea what's been said to him. He glances at Meredith and then back at Mr. Giraffe. Before Meredith can jump in and redirect Mr. Giraffe's focus, though, Derek says, "I .…" He swallows. "I .…"

Mr. Giraffe claps Derek on the back. "You want to give them a try?" Mr. Giraffe says. He pushes the pile of blocks in Derek's direction. "Be my guest."

Derek stares at the blocks. And then he looks at Mr. Giraffe. And back at the blocks.

"I know," Mr. Giraffe quips. "They're like rocket science and particle theory had a baby or something."

Derek touches the blocks, looking at each one in turn with a slow, appraising gaze. And then he puts them all together like puzzle pieces to form a cylinder. The whole affair takes him about a minute.

Mr. Giraffe's jaw drops. "Well, gee," he says. "Now, I feel shown up."

Derek looks back at Mr. Giraffe. "What …?" Derek begins, but then his face reddens, and he turns away and doesn't finish his question. He shakes his head.

Mr. Giraffe looks at Derek. His eyes narrow like he's solving a puzzle. For a moment, he doesn't speak. And then he reaches out with his long, long arm that's nothing but bone and skin from fingertip to shoulder, and he says, "I'm Stewart Manning. Nice to meet you."

Derek peers at the hand that's been extended to him. Meredith's not sure he's ever seen this gesture, but he solves a lot of his confusion in foreign situations with mimicry. He lifts his arm, and Stewart pulls Derek's hand into a firm shake before Derek has to decide what to do next.

Derek swallows. "Derek … Shepherd." He glances at her. "This … wife … Meredith."

Stewart reaches to shake her hand as well. His skin is warm and dry, and his grip is firm. He smiles like he's used to charming the pants off strangers. "My wife's name is Sarah. She had an emergency, so she had to leave. We just moved here, so she's low woman on the totem pole at work."

Meredith grins. "Yeah, I know how that goes. Hospitals tend to torture new employees."

Stewart doesn't ask how Meredith has figured out Sarah is a doctor. Nor does he tell her she's wrong. He just snorts his agreement and shakes his head.

Meredith glances at the surrounding classroom. Parents are milling, and the chatter is a loud rumble because so many people are jammed like sardines into a space meant for far fewer bodies. A flustered-looking woman wearing a floral-print sundress stands at the front of the room, rifling through papers on her desk with a frantic edge to her search. Meredith glances at her watch. The presentation should have started three minutes ago. Ms. Teacher might be in the weeds.

"Hello, everyone," Ms. Teacher calls over the murmur, which dies to a whisper and then silence. "I'm Ms. Gandy. I'm so sorry to keep you all waiting, but I've left my info packets at home by accident, and I need to run and make some new copies. Please, feel free to chat amongst yourselves." She grabs a thick sheaf of papers from her briefcase and dashes for the classroom door, almost tripping over Stewart's leg in the process. "I'll be right back!"

Stewart grinds his teeth, puts both hands under his bony thigh, and pulls his long leg closer to the table. He gives the aisle another six inches of legless space.

"So, where are you from?" Meredith says.

Stewart glances at her, eyebrows raised in … surprise? But what could be surprising about a question like that? Meredith has no idea. "Manhattan," he says in a wary tone. "Why?"

Meredith grins. "Really? Derek has family in Manhattan. He grew up in Brooklyn."

Stewart's surprised eyebrows climb even higher toward his hairline. He looks at Meredith, stares at her like he's trying to find something in her expression, but she has no idea what he's looking for. He looks at Derek, too, with the same, searching, _are-you-for-real_? loitering in his eyes.

"You guys … aren't basketball fans, I take it," Stewart says in a suspicious tone.

Which is … weird. What the hell does basketball have to do with anything? "I don't have a lot of time to follow sports," Meredith says.

"I like … baseball," Derek says.

Stewart snorts, and his wariness bleeds out of his features. "Well, we all have flaws," he says, but when he sees Derek fail to laugh at his joke, he adds, "I kid; I kid; I'm sorry." He glances back at Meredith. "So, what is there to do around here?"

Meredith frowns. "Here, here? Or Seattle, here?"

He shrugs. "Either one. I haven't been out here since the Sonics moved away."

"Are you an outdoors-y person?" Meredith says.

"According to my wife, I should be," Stewart says. "She thinks it will help me 'unwind.'" He puts the word unwind in long, spindly air quotes. "I'm 'stressed' she says." More air quotes. "Frankly, I think she's the stressed one, these days, but I've learned over the years that she's always right, even when she's not."

Meredith snorts.

Stewart leans closer to Derek and says in a very loud whisper, "It's an important marriage survival tool. The wife is always right. Take heart if you haven't already."

Derek takes a moment to digest that, but he manages to respond, "Meredith … right," in halting syllables.

Stewart claps him on the back again. "That's the spirit, man!" He turns back to Meredith. "So?"

"Well," Meredith says, "there's lots of hiking."

Stewart frowns, and he gestures at his knee. "Preferably something with less walking." He looks back at Derek, eyeballs the cane, and says, "What do you like to do?"

Derek stares at him for a long moment before managing to say, "I … like … see … see … seeing … things."

Stewart nods. "Like to play tourist, eh? Well, I'd love to come along on your next expedition, seeing as how I actually **am** a tourist, still." He turns to Meredith. "Say, you two should come to dinner this Friday. Are you free Friday?"

Meredith blinks. "Um. Well."

"My wife and I need friends, stat," Stewart says. "You'd be doing us a favor. Bring your kiddo, too, if you want. We have two. Annie's five and Lindsey's seven."

"We have two also," Meredith says. "Zola's five and Bailey's three."

Stewart nods. "So, dinner?"

Meredith bites her lip. Friday is a rehab day for Derek. Not his best night. But … she looks at Stewart. And she thinks about Sarah. Stewart seems like such a nice person – so did Sarah from the little Meredith saw – and Stewart doesn't seem turned off by Derek's trouble with words. There's no way Stewart's missed Derek's issues, either. Derek can fake fluency with short sentences when he's not tired, but right now, he's speaking like he and speaking are, at best, frenemies.

Still, she's reluctant, and Stewart seems to sense this. "Please," he says. "It's just so nice to meet people who aren't Knicks fans."

"Knicks?" Derek says.

Stewart blinks and turns to Derek. "Wow," he says. "You really weren't kidding about not being a basketball fan, were you?"

Derek stares back at Stewart, mouth opening and closing while he searches for a word. "I … don't know?"

" **Wow** ," Stewart says with more weight. And then he gives Derek a goofy grin. "Okay, I can respect the decision to not like basketball. It's a wrong one, like being a vegan, liking Texas, or, of all the alcoholic beverages in the world, opting to suck down a piña colada, but it's not my life, so … whatever. But if you don't **know** , I'm taking you to a game, stat. This is not optional."

Derek's flummoxed by the word explosion originating from Stewart's mouth, and all he does is blink.

Stewart nods. "You're a man of few words, aren't you?" he says. Another big, friendly grin. "I like the strong, stoic types. So, dinner Friday?"

Meredith can't help it anymore. "Sure," she says. "Okay."

And Stewart's smile spreads even wider.

* * *

After Ms. Gandy finishes her presentation, Meredith tells Derek to start making his way back to the car, eyeballing Stewart the entire time, so she doesn't lose track of him. Stewart disappears into the men's room, so she waits against the opposite wall, arms folded. The water fountain rumbles, and clumps of parents trickle past. She bites her lip. She wants this to work, she hopes this will work, but she also doesn't want to see Derek break the rest of the way.

When Stewart comes back out, he sees her standing there, and he smiles. "Mrs. Shepherd," he says, and he comes to a stop next to her.

"Grey."

"Purple."

Meredith frowns. "What?"

Stewart shrugs. "I thought we were naming our favorite colors."

"Oh," Meredith says. She has to crane her neck to see his face. God, he's tall. Like Space Needle tall. He's a good foot taller than she is. Maybe, more than. She steps back a bit to ease the strain on her neck. "No, I mean my last name is Grey. Meredith Grey. I never took my husband's last name, and, please, call me Meredith, anyway."

"Sorry," he says. He nods. "Meredith."

"It's no big deal," she says. "I just wanted to talk with you-"

He sighs. "I came on too strong, didn't I?"

"No, it's not that-"

"I'm sorry about that," he says. He shifts his weight, and his crutches creak. "I'm just so sick of all the press. And the comments. And it was so refreshing to meet people who don't have any clue who I am, let alone think they know me after reading a few articles."

Meredith's eyes narrow with suspicion. "I get the impression that if I Google you, I'm going to find about seventeen trillion hits," she says, "and they're going to tell me you're some sort of basketball superstar like Michael Jordan."

His lip twitches. "Something like that, yes."

She looks at him for a long moment. Behind his friendly exterior, she sees a little dark-and-twisty. Like recognizes like. "I won't Google," she says, because she gets the impression this is something he needs. He stares at her like he's found a unicorn, but he says nothing. She continues, "Look, I just .… I'll be blunt."

"I prefer blunt," he says with a nod. "Lay it on me."

"My husband was in a bad car accident last year. He received a head injury that almost killed him. He's still healing, but .…" She swallows. "He's never going to be 100 percent again." She'd be grateful if Derek makes it to somewhere in the 80 percent range, but where he's already at, now, makes for a miracle the size of Washington as it is, so, she tries not to hope.

"Okay," Stewart says. "And?"

"And he has a difficult time speaking. He's still relearning words, and he can't handle fast speech or complex grammar, so he has a hard time understanding sometimes, too. People mistake that for stupidity, but-"

Stewart shakes his head. "The guy solved that trick block puzzle in seconds. He's not stupid."

"His spatial IQ is as sharp as it always was; it's just his language center that's screwed up." Specifically, his left Broca's area, his left primary motor cortex, and parts of his left temporal lobe all had issues. "Just … he's had an awful year, and what you saw tonight is not atypical for him, and if that's not something you want to deal with, tell me, now, before he gets his heart crushed, okay? He doesn't deserve to have his heart crushed. Not after what he's been through."

"Okay," Stewart says, his voice deep and serious.

She hopes he doesn't. She hopes so hard it hurts. She wants Derek to have a friend who lives in the area and isn't a damned surgeon. But she has to ask, point blank, "So, do you want to back out of that dinner offer?"

"Nope," Stewart says before she's even taken a breath.

Meredith blinks. "Really?"

Stewart stares at her for a long moment. "Can I be blunt with **you**?" he says.

"Yes."

"I've had a bad year, too," he says. "You seem like nice people, and I could really use some nice people in my life right now. I don't care if Derek's not very chatty. Nobody's perfect. Please, come to dinner."

"Okay," Meredith says, sagging with relief. "Deal."

Stewart grins. "Sweet," he says. "I'm up by two already."

Meredith blinks. "Up by …?"

"My wife and I have a bet," he explains. "She thinks my hidden pain makes me too surly to make friends."

"You're … having a competition … about who can make the most friends?" she says.

He shrugs. "What can I say? We're competitive people."

Meredith snorts. Yeah. A professional basketball player would have to be competitive. They're freaking paid for that quality. And doctors? Even worse. At least, all the doctors she knows. "I think I like Sarah already," Meredith says, grinning.

"What about me?" Stewart says with a twinkle in his dark eyes. "I'm likable. Aren't I likable?"

"Maybe," she says, though she can't stop the smile from pulling at her lips.

" **Maybe**?" Stewart says, incredulity dripping from his tone. "Well, it's a start, I suppose."

She laughs. "See you on Friday, Stewart," she says, testing out the name on her tongue.

"Likewise," he says.

She turns to go, and then pauses. Frowns. She thought, first, that perhaps they drove separately, but when she eyeballs his leg, she changes her mind. There's no way he can drive with that knee brace. "Hey, how are you getting home since your wife had to leave early?"

"I figured I'd call a taxi," he says.

"Yeah .…" she says. Well, if there was any doubt he's a Manhattanite, she supposes there isn't, now. "That's not going to work very well out here. Downtown, sure, but not here. You'll be waiting like an hour." She waves at him. "C'mon, I'll give you a ride."

* * *

Meredith's not sure how much of the conversation on Monday night Derek grasped, so she's sure to ask him on Tuesday, "Going to Stewart's for dinner on Friday is okay with you, right?"

"Yes," he says, and despite how rundown he looks, she doesn't miss the tiny smile twitching at his lips.

* * *

She's sitting alone in her favorite hallway on her favorite abandoned gurney in a shaft of waning daylight, reviewing patient charts, when she feels her phone vibrate. She shifts to pull it out of her pocket, and she frowns at the caller ID. Derek Shepherd, it says, and his smiling pre-accident photograph stares back at her. He can use the phone, but he hates it, and he's never called her before. Ever.

She hits the green connect button and raises the phone to her ear. "Derek?" At first all she hears is heavy, hitching breathing on the other end of the line, and her body tenses. "Derek, are you okay? Do you need help?"

"Hello," he says in a soft, wrecked voice.

"Hi," she says, biting her lip. "Are you okay?"

She hears a thunk on the other end of the line. "I don't .…" he says, but he doesn't finish the sentence.

She glances at her watch. Almost time for her shift to end, but not quite. This is the twilight period after Derek's rehab appointments where he waits an hour or two for her to pick him up. He fills some of that time in the showers, but he also kills time in the recreation room, or he sleeps on one of the couches in the atrium if he's wiped. Her fingers tighten around the phone. She makes an educated guess and says, "Did rehab not go so well today?"

He's silent for a long time. "I … I … sorry … I … bother."

"You're not bothering me," she says, heart squeezing. "Derek, you're not."

He doesn't respond to that, and she sighs, not sure if he has no response, or hasn't understood. Telephone is such a crappy medium for him, because not only is it verbal, it steals every other cue he could use to derive meaning. Like lip movement, facial expression, gestures, or overall demeanor of the speaker.

"I .…" he says. "P-please. Tell. Your … day."

She blinks. "You want to hear about my day?"

"Or .…" A pause. "Anything?"

She leans back in her seat, a slow, easy smile stretching across her face. Not because he's feeling bad, but because he wants to rectify this situation by hearing her voice. At least, she thinks that's what he's doing. She thinks.

"One of my interns kicked ass," she says, careful to pace her words. She talks about twice as slowly as she does in normal conversation to help him out.

He takes a while, but he responds, "The one … with … funny hair?"

She smiles wider. "Yeah, that one. Dr. Peters."

"What … he do?"

"I was thinking he was going to wash out," Meredith says.

"Wash out … is … f-fail?"

"Yes," she says. "But he seems to be finding the groove, finally."

Another pause. "… F-finding … groove?"

"Sorry," she says, shaking her head. "I mean he's figuring things out."

"Yes?"

"I walked him through a simple surgery," she says. An appendectomy. She doesn't know what possessed her to dump a solo procedure on him so early in his surgical career, but appendectomies are boring to her, and why not use the opportunity to teach? She didn't torture him like when Burke roasted George. She handed him the scalpel and instead of expecting him to have the whole thing memorized like a pro, she walked him through it step by step, and he did great. "I rocked the teacher thing today."

"You are … you are … you're … you're always … good teach, Meredith."

She blinks. "You really think so?" she says. She's always considered Derek to be the good teacher. Not her.

"You teach … me," he says.

For a moment, she's speechless. She's never thought of it that way before. Helping him adjust to the world. To the kids. To life outside the rehab bubble. She rubs wetness out of her eyes, thinking of him. Thinking of Miranda. Of Richard. "I had some good examples," she says. She pauses, wondering whether she should continue, given how he reacted last time she talked about his teaching skills, but … she thinks. Hopes. Hopes she's straightened things out with him. And she wants him to know this. "Like you, Derek. I had you."

She bites her lip, waiting for him to respond. She can't help but smile when he says, "I … I'm glad I help." A pause. "Helped." Another pause. "I like … help you."

* * *

Taking the ten minute drive to the Manning house in the daylight allows Meredith to see that Stewart and Sarah and their kids live in an isolated house much like Meredith and Derek's, though instead of crowning a hilltop, the Manning house is nestled among the trees in the thick forest of the valley below. She pulls to the end of the gravel driveway, parking behind a black-looking Mustang convertible and a beat-up beige-and-brown station wagon that looks like it time-traveled here from the '80s or something. Her fingers tighten against the steering wheel. Her stomach might be doing legitimate flip flops like some sort of gymnast. She hopes this works out for Derek. She hopes so hard. He needs this.

With a deep breath, she slides out of the car. Derek follows on his side of the car. His feet and cane crunch on the gravel. They liberate Bailey and Zola from their car seats, next.

Derek looks at the new surroundings, gaze darting this way and that. Despite the late summer sunlight, the heavy canopy of treetops mutes the light and turns her green Jeep black. The small clearing where the house sits feels a bit like a fairytale. Like Little Red Riding hood skipping through the forest to Grandma's house or something. Meredith stares at towering firs and hemlocks and alders forming a natural fence around the lot. Birdsongs fill the air, along with the shh-shh-shh of cicadas, and the twitter of other bugs she can't identify.

After his bad rehab session on Wednesday, Derek managed to recoup some energy on Thursday by spending most of his time sleeping. Meredith told his therapists to take it easy on him today, too, in hopes of helping him bounce back enough for this dinner thing, and they seem to have listened. He's more chipper than usual and not limping. Sarah called earlier in the week, much to Meredith's surprise, to ask for a rundown on Derek 101. Every possible thing that could happen to help make this night a success has happened.

The door opens before Meredith and Derek are up the steps, and Meredith looks up to see Sarah smiling at them with her perfect, pearly, model smile. "Hey, guys! Come in, come in!"

Well, Meredith thinks with a gulp, here goes nothing.

"Well," Stewart says, glancing at his watch as he hobbles back into the living room from the den, the strains of _The Little Mermaid's_ theme song chasing faintly after him, "we have approximately ninety-two minutes of chat time before the little zombies wake up from their Disney coma."

Much like Derek doesn't use his cane at home anymore, Stewart doesn't use his crutches, just a cane, and his home-wear knee brace is much thinner and has no buckles. Still, he collapses into a giant recliner with a grateful look on his face. He grabs his beer from his coaster and slugs it empty in a few giant swallows.

"Meredith's a surgeon, too," Sarah says.

Stewart's eyebrows raise. "Oh, really?" He looks at Meredith. "Which whatchamacallits do you fix?"

Meredith snorts. Her head rests against Derek's shoulder. They're cuddled on a love seat, and Meredith's so stuffed she hurts. Sarah cooks like she was meant to be a freaking chef, not a doctor, and Meredith ate like a ravenous glutton as a result. "I'm a general surgeon at Seattle Grace," she says. "I fix all sorts of whatchamacallits."

"So," Stewart says, "general whatchamacallits? You're like the Budweiser Beer of surgeons?"

Meredith shakes her head. "I handle pretty much anything to do with your digestive system."

Stewart nods, an impressed look on his face. He reaches a long arm across the gap between his and Sarah's chairs and thwacks her playfully on the arm. "Hey, she fixes more kinds of whatchamacallits than you do," he says. "Does she win in sudden surgeon deathmatch?"

Sarah giggles and rolls her eyes. She's a cardiothoracic surgeon like Cristina. She worked at Mount Sinai in New York, but now she's transferred to the local hospital here. St. Mary's or something like that. It's a fine hospital, but not cutting edge like Seattle Grace.

"So, what do you do, Derek?" Stewart says.

Derek says, "I don't work."

Stewart grins and slaps his thigh above his knee brace. "What a coincidence; I don't either!" He looks at Sarah. "I tell you, woman, this is kismet."

"I used to be a … neurosurgeon," Derek says.

Sarah's eyes bug out of her head, but she doesn't comment, and her look of surprise is gone in seconds. Meredith's not even sure she saw anything. She frowns.

"Even better," Stewart says. "We're both has-beens. It's a unique sect of people."

Derek stares for a long moment. "What is … has-been?" he says, and Meredith's eyes widen a little. Derek doesn't do that. Ask for word meanings from strangers. She's watched several _what-the-hell-does-that-mean_ looks slide across his face over the course of the evening, but he's not asked for clarification, yet. Until now.

"Well, in my case," Stewart says, "it means I'm a formerly awesome professional retired by a stupid injury, and now I'm a lazy couch potato. I'm not sure about your case. Were you awesome, too? Do you like couches?"

Derek swallows. "I … don't …?"

Sarah rolls her eyes at Stewart. "Derek, a has-been is someone who used to do something prominent, but can't or doesn't anymore."

"Oh," Derek says. He thinks for a long moment. "I'm … has-been." His hand wanders to the side of his head. His gaze shifts back to Stewart. "I have … stupid hurt. A. A. A stupid hurt."

Stewart's eyes twinkle as he cups his big hand over his mouth and whispers with the subtlety of a bullhorn, "Kismet, Sarah. I'm telling you."

Sarah laughs and pops up from her chair with her empty wine glass. "Does anyone want a refill aside from Stewart?" she says.

Derek shakes his head. And Meredith says, "No, thanks."

Sarah trots out of the room, and Meredith takes a sip from her glass, only to discover the glass she thought was full is empty save for a final dreg. She can't remember the last time she's had a good enough time in a social setting to not have an idea down to the milliliter of how much alcohol she has left to help her pass the seconds. She kisses Derek on the cheek and rises from the sofa.

"I think I need more after all," she says, and she chases after Sarah.

* * *

Sarah's crying by the kitchen sink as she clutches a chilled wine bottle, and Meredith halts in the doorway. "I'm …," Meredith begins. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to .… I'll just … go … now."

Sarah wipes her eyes. "No, don't. I'm sorry." She looks up at Meredith and smiles despite her wet, red eyes. "Did you need something?"

Meredith puts her wine glass on the countertop, swallowing. She doesn't want to be too forward when this relationship is so new, but she can't help but say, "Are you … okay?"

Sarah wipes her eyes again. Her mascara smudges a little. "Oh, these are happy tears; I swear."

"You don't look happy," Meredith says.

"I'm sorry," Sarah says. "I'm sorry. It's just … Stu's had such an awful year. It's so nice to see him connecting with someone again."

Meredith swallows. "What happened exactly? I mean, you don't have to get specific – I promised Stewart I wouldn't Google – I'm just .…"

Sarah nods. "Stu blew out his knee in the playoffs last year. He's had to come to terms with a lot of bad stuff, and he had to do it in a paparazzi-enforced fishbowl, and it's been … ugly. He's lost a lot of people he thought were friends."

"Oh," Meredith says.

Sarah looks at Meredith. "Meredith, can I be a little nosy?"

"Sure," Meredith says, "if I can reserve the right not to answer."

Sarah nods as if to say _well, duh_. "Your husband," Sarah says. "He's Derek Shepherd. As in **that** Derek Shepherd. I didn't make the connection until he said he was a neurosurgeon."

"Yes. That Derek Shepherd." Meredith sighs. "He's had a crap year, too."

Sarah nods. "He worked at the same hospital when I did my residency, you know. Mount Sinai."

Meredith blinks. She knew Derek worked at Mount Sinai at some point before he split off to form his own practice, but didn't realize his tenure there lined up with Sarah's. "What? Really?"

Sarah shrugs. "I didn't ever meet him, but I saw him in passing. It was like fifteen years ago, though, which is why I needed the explicit neurosurgeon clue bat to hit me in the face." She smiles. "Maybe, Stewart will be as good for him as he seems to be for Stewart."

"I hope so," Meredith says. "I hope so, **so** much. They seem like they're hitting it off pretty well."

Sarah smiles. "Yep. But enough about our men," she says. She sidles to the counter where Meredith's empty wine glass sits. She tips the chilled wine bottle she's been holding, and she fills the glass to the brim. Then she slides onto the countertop like it's her chair. "Tell me about you. What do you like to do for fun?"

Meredith blinks. This woman is like … if Cristina had people skills and could cook more than cereal. Or something. She shakes away the image and sighs. "There's … not much to tell. I haven't had much time for fun since Derek's accident. With two kids, too, it's been like being a single mother, and-"

Sarah nods. "Say no more," she says. "I've been stuck there all year, too, particularly right after Stewart's knee surgery." She takes a gulp from her wine glass. "So, I say we fix it. Do you like to go clubbing?"

Excitement bowls into Meredith like the crush of a wave, and she has to tamp down on an urge to bounce. She loves clubbing, but Derek never did, and with Cristina gone, she hasn't been out like that in over two years at this point. "Yes," Meredith says. "God, yes. I **love** dancing."

Sarah winks. "Is Saturday okay? Not tomorrow. Next week, I mean. My schedule is a bit wonky."

"I'd have to check with the nanny," Meredith hedges.

"Pfft," Sarah says. "I have it on good authority that Stewart makes an excellent nanny, and Saturdays are my wildcard day. I mean, if you've decided we're not axe murderers and know how to raise children, that is. No pressure. I get the mama bear thing."

Meredith laughs. Sarah is fun. And Meredith is finding her almost impossible to not get along with so far. "Let me think about it," Meredith says. "What's a wildcard day?"

"Oh, it's a system we have. I'm allowed to do anything I want on Saturdays without checking with him first, and he'll stay home with the kids if my chosen thing involves going out. He gets Fridays. Exceptions for emergencies and nights when I'm on call, of course."

Meredith nods. "Hence the dinner invitation today."

Sarah grins. "Yep! Not that I would have protested even without the wildcard thing. We've been having trouble meeting people out here."

"I wish I could do that with Derek," Meredith says. "The wildcard thing."

"He can't watch the kids?" Sarah says.

"Not yet," Meredith says. "He can take care of himself. I think he could be by himself, now, too, come to think of it. But the kids would be too much for him. He gets overwhelmed too easily, still."

Sarah flashes another perfect, pearly smile. "Maybe, we can work something out. I'm a sharing-is-caring type person. I don't see why I can't share a wildcard. I'm sure Stewart wouldn't mind."

"Is it too early in our relationship to say that I love you?" Meredith says, and they share a giggle, clinking their wine glasses together in solidarity. Even if Stewart and Derek don't work out, Meredith thinks she's found something to fill a void of her own. One she didn't even realize she had.

* * *

Overall, Meredith thinks the night was a success, because she's got a date to go clubbing next Saturday, and Stewart's taking Derek to a basketball game next Friday at the Key Arena.

 _I thought basketball's a winter sport,_ Meredith said.

 _WNBA plays in the summer,_ Stewart responded.

Meredith frowned. _We have a women's team?_

 _Seattle Storm,_ Stewart said. _Good lord, am I going to have to fix you, too?_

Judging from the horrified look that loitered on Stewart's face, Meredith's certain she's going to get dragged to a basketball game at some point, too. She's interested to discover, though, that she doesn't mind the idea, in theory. She's missed having a freaking social life enough to try almost anything.

She's missed it a lot.

* * *

On Saturday, Richard arrives at lunchtime with a _Fishing for Dummies_ book, as promised, and he and Derek head out to the lake with Derek's fishing gear and some non-alcoholic beverages like root beer and stuff. They're gone for hours.

"We catched a fish," Derek announces when they return.

Richard trudges into the house behind Derek. Richard's clothes seem … kind of wet, and he stomps a lot of mud into the welcome mat. Meredith resists the urge to ask what in the hell happened. Zola and Bailey appear underfoot to watch this spectacle. She picks up Bailey and settles him against her hip.

Meredith glances at the cooler Derek's dragging into the kitchen with his free hand. When Derek puts it on the counter and doesn't pull off the lid, she goes to look, thinking they might be having fresh trout for dinner or something. All she finds in the cooler is empty space.

"Where is it?" she says.

"Yeah, where fishy?" Bailey demands, looking down at the emptiness.

"We throwed it back," Derek says. He frowns like he knows what he's said is wrong, but he doesn't seem to be in the mood for self-recrimination, because he corrects himself with none of the usual glowering or grimaces. He glances at Richard. "Throwed …?"

Richard shakes his head. "Threw."

Derek nods. "We threw it back."

Meredith frowns. "Okay .…"

Derek shrugs. "I don't want boil lobster, either."

Meredith glances back and forth between Richard and Derek. Richard seems on board with the decision not the murder the fish, because he grins. "They're pretty fun to catch, though," Richard says. "I kind of wish I'd learned this sooner."

Derek nods, eyes twinkling. "Yes. They're fun to catch." He turns to Richard. "Stay for dinner?"

"Sure," Richard says. "This was fun. But I, uh .…" He shifts, and he adjusts his wet shirt. "I could use a shower and some dry clothes."

She will not ask what happened, Meredith thinks. She will not. She will not. She bites her lip, fighting not to laugh at him, and says, "You can grab anything you want from Derek's middle drawer. He keeps his sweats in there." Richard is bigger in the waist, butt, and chest than Derek, but the looseness of the sweats should make it okay, at least, enough that Richard will be comfortable for however long he stays. "And you know where the linen closet is."

Richard nods and heads to the master bedroom. Derek stays in the kitchen with her and the empty cooler. He steps into her space. She turns to him. He kisses her. Takes her breath away. Bailey squirms, and she sets him down at their feet.

Zola says, "What's for dinner, Daddy?" and Derek pulls away from the embrace, but he's still smiling. Still … happy.

"I was going to heat up some pizza for everybody," Meredith says.

Zola scrunches her nose, and Derek snorts. "You make fire with last pizza," he says. He rubs his ears like he can still hear the shrieking smoke detector.

Meredith gapes. "That was just the one time! A fluke! I swear!"

"What is fluke?" Derek says.

"A one-time, freaky thing," Meredith explains.

The smirk she gets in response makes her want to smack him. "One time?" he says with an arched eyebrow and a teasing expression that says, _One time. Sure. After the one time before it. And before the one time after it_.

She folds her arms and glowers. His eyes are all twinkly and happy and gorgeous, but she's immune. "One. Time."

"I make dinner," he says, a low rumble, and he leans to kiss her irritation away. Immune. Immune. Immuneimmuneimmune. "I like cook for you," he murmurs against her skin. His touch turns her to jelly in his arms, and she sighs. Who's she kidding? So, so not immune.

"Well, when you put it like that …," she replies, somewhat mollified.

"What do you want?" Derek says to Zola while Meredith licks her lips, trying to preserve the taste of him for a moment longer.

"Ice cream!" Zola says.

"Ice cream, ice cream!" Bailey echoes.

Derek looks like he's actually considering the merits of this suggestion, so Meredith interjects, "How about dinner food, first, okay?"

"Umm," Zola says, thinking. "Tacos?"

"Tacos, tacos!" Bailey says.

Derek turns to Meredith, a question in his gaze. She nods. "Tacos sound fine to me."

Derek nods and turns to the fridge to rummage. He pulls out a pound sleeve full of ground chuck, and grated cheese, and some other things.

Meredith hasn't seen Derek in this good of a mood since … ever. Not since the accident, at least. Her smile stretches as she watches him start to fix dinner. Derek Shepherd. Still loves to fish. Doesn't like to kill what he catches, anymore, though. Kind of turning into a chef, too.

* * *

 **Additional Notes to LST fans:** Stewart & Sarah have the exact same backstory as they did in LST, except they're not in Derek's family anymore, so Sarah isn't Derek's sister, and Stewart isn't Derek's brother-in-law. Literally everything else is the same. I hope this isn't too confusing :) Both Derek and Meredith were BEGGING me for friends when I reached this point in writing the story, and I simply couldn't resist bringing in some familiar faces. I like having Stewart & Sarah in my fix-it verse. I hope you do, too!


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Notes:**

As some of you may or may not have noticed, I've been dealing with some personal problems lately. It's very hard to juggle posting this story with that, and I'm only just staying in front of the wave that's threatening to crush me, so, please forgive me if I drop the ball on responding to feedback or post a chapter a little late. Just know your feedback means the world to me :) Oh, and speaking of feedback, I forget who asked for it, but here's your requested pizza and wine!

* * *

 **Week fifteen.**

Maggie's taken the kids for the day and is bringing them back a little before bedtime, so that Meredith can have a quiet date night with Derek. The sun hangs low on the horizon, a blinding pie plate of incandescent light almost shaking hands with the tree line. The mournful coo coo coo- **woo** **o** ooo song of some sort of bird floats through the open windows, and a balmy, late-summer Seattle breeze blows through the house.

They still have a little while left before they have to be parents again. A grease-spotted box with one remaining pepperoni pizza slice rests, flap open, on the coffee table, next to two wine half-empty glasses. She's working on a cabernet sauvignon. Derek's drinking a sweet white. _Moscato d'Asti_. She's shown him merlot and shiraz, two of her three favorite reds, and he hates both, so she took a step back to whites, since they tend to taste less tannin-y than reds. He's okay-ish with riesling and dislikes pinot grigio. The moscato is what drew a smile, though, which cracks her up. Of course, he'd like the wine that's a diabetic's nightmare.

She's full to the point of bursting, and she flops against the back of the sofa with a breathless grunt. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he snakes his arm around her in a way that suggests it's become reflexive. She can't stop a grin from pulling at her lips. Before the accident, the idea of Derek demolishing a pizza with her, let alone drinking the wine equivalent of liquefied sugar, would have made her snort with disbelief.

"What's it like?" Meredith says, staring into space. "Your memories. Do you have ones you don't tell me about?" She swallows and rushes to say, "I mean, you don't have to tell me about them. I just … wondered how much more you have buried away somewhere."

He thinks for a long moment. "I have … pieces," he says. "Much don't make sense."

She frowns and peers up at him. "Like what?"

"Someone tell stop … be … self-righteous dick," he says in an unoffended, bland tone, like he's reading a grocery list, and she can't help but snort. "I don't know who. I only hear."

"Wasn't me," she says. She's called him plenty of bad things over the years, but not that.

He grins. "I didn't thought it was." He's silent for a long moment. "What is self-righteous dick?"

She laughs. She can't help it. "I'm sorry," she blurts as she watches his grin drip away like water. "I'm sorry," she says, clutching at his shirt until the giggles leave her system. She wipes tears from her eyes. "I'm not laughing at you. Just … hearing that question from you is … like irony took steroids."

He thinks for a moment before looking at her with an apologetic expression. "I don't …." He sighs. "I don't understand this words."

"Sorry," she says. "My fault." It's so hard for her to remember figures of speech are a lost cause with him. He's more literal than Spock, sometimes. "Irony is … something that's the opposite of what's expected."

He churns on that for a long moment. He frowns. "You don't expect me question …." He sighs. "Question." A frustrated grunt. "Ask. Ask this meaning?"

"Right," she says. "Self-righteous means … smug and judge-y. And dick is another word for penis."

He mottles red and swallows. From the look on his face, he had no idea he was asking about anatomy. Or an insult. "Oh," he says. He shifts in his seat. "Why is my ask irony?"

"Because …," she says, voice trailing away into silence. She tries to think of a way out of this conversation. One that doesn't involve lying to him, telling him she doesn't want to discuss this right now, or doing something as juvenile as an oh-look-an-elephant conversational flash bang grenade to distract him from the subject at hand. Something that won't sabotage their recent trajectory of honesty and intimacy. Her mind is an unhelpful lump in this moment, though, and she comes up blank. She didn't freaking want to cause a fight. This was supposed to be a fun pizza and wine date. Speaking of wine …. She leans forward and grabs her glass to take a big chug. Knowing Derek, she'll need wine for this. Maybe, a jug of the stuff. She braces herself. "Because that's how you were."

He does **not** look happy, and she takes another gulp from her wine glass. He gives her a wet, hurt look that makes her heart squeeze. He swallows. "You're say … I was … self-righteous dick?"

"You've … had your moments," she replies, trying to be diplomatic.

"To you?" he says in an upset tone.

"Well," she says, the word hesitant. She kind of wants the floor to swallow her. She doesn't want to have this out with him. Not now. Not ever, really. But not now, in particular. "Yes, sometimes."

He nods, gaze like shattered glass, like she took a hammer and smashed him. She tips back her wine glass and empties it of all hint of alcoholic fortitude while she waits for the explosion. But he doesn't explode. For a long time, he stares into space. His lips move. She waits.

"You … think I'm this … now?" he says in a quiet voice. There's still no explosion.

"No!" she says, a rushing, relieved syllable. "No, I don't think you're like that at all since the accident." If anything, his tendency to judge flipped like a light switch from on to off. His humility in the face of his disability is … well, mind-boggling. She smiles. She pushes her fingers through his hair with her free hand. "Frankly, Derek, I admire you."

He stares back at her for a long moment with dark, unreadable eyes. And then he says, "I'm sorry I'm bad before," in a deep, sincere tone. No excuse. No blame-tossing. No ultimatum. Nothing.

He doesn't even freaking have context, and he's willing to apologize. Getting apologies from him before the accident was like waiting for the sun to rise at night. He was prideful, stubborn, fixated on what she owed him, and so sure he was right and she was wrong and lemon-y and broken, that, often times, their serious fights just … ceased. He didn't say sorry. They just kind of … stopped fighting. Like they ran out of fighting batteries or something. He'd say something poetic and dreamy, and they'd be done. Oh, sure, he'd apologize for little things, like hogging the covers, or for kissing her with his yucky morning breath, but .…

She can't help but gape at him.

"It's … okay," she says, dumbfounded. She's not sure what else needs to be said. She can't deny the apology sounds nice to hear, but there's little to no benefit to reopening old wounds caused by things he doesn't even remember. She smiles at him, calling up an old memory of her own. "It's water under the thing or whatever."

He shakes his head. "Water under …?"

She puts her wine glass back on the table and presses close, until their bodies are flush. She kisses him. "That means it's not important anymore," she says against his lips. "Okay?" He's stiff and unyielding at first, but she kisses him again, and he begins to relax. His upset look recedes like a tide. "Okay?" she prods. Finally, she gets a grin and a nod back from him. When he rumbles his assent, she pushes her fingers through his hair and rests her palm against his scalp. She leans closer, intent. "What other pieces do you have?"

He shrugs, thinking. "I remember … a bouncing ball. It's red. And … I remember your hair pony."

"A ponytail?" she says, raising her eyebrows.

"Yes, this."

"Was the ponytail alarmingly high?"

"How high is this?" he says. She laughs and grabs her hair, pulling it up to demonstrate. He shakes his head and grins back at her, all remnants of his former upset vanished. "No, height only little concern," he says with twinkling, humor-filled eyes. "Why?"

"I wore my hair up in an alarmingly high ponytail the first time I met your mother. Don't ask me why. I couldn't tell you." He nods. She kisses him. "What else?"

"I remember … feel sick," he says.

She frowns. "About what?"

"I don't know," Derek says. He sighs. "This things never make sense."

"Until you see them?"

"Yes," he says. "Until I see real. But many don't have real anymore."

She kisses him through his t-shirt, pushing her hand underneath the hem to offer skin-to-skin contact. Closeness. He's warm and alive and breathing underneath her palm. She doesn't miss the way his eyes space like he's drunk as she rubs him. He stares through his dark eyelashes at some undefined, distant point, and he tips his head to the side, pressing his nose into her hair. He inhales.

"I remember this smell," he says.

She looks up at him. "Lavender?"

"What is lavender?"

"It's a purple flower," she says. "The smell is from my conditioner."

"I like it," he says. He thinks for a long moment. "I remember … I don't know word."

"Describe what you see."

"It metal," he says. "Like this." He draws a diagonal line in the air with his hand.

She frowns. Her palm against his skin is a soft shh shh shh as she thinks. And thinks. She gives up after a minute, though. "I … have no idea."

"I falled down it," Derek says. "Mark chased."

Her frown deepens. An inkling niggles at the back of her brain like a bug bite. "How old was Mark?"

"I don't know," Derek replies. "He had face hair. We drinked beer, and it's dark."

"The beer was dark?"

"No, sky," he says. He thinks, looking up at the ceiling. "Oh, and there was sand."

Her inkling becomes a full-fledged idea. "A … slide?" she says. The conundrum is that she finds it hard to believe Derek spent time on a slide as an adult. But she also finds it hard to believe Derek ever drank underage. "Like on a playground?"

Derek shrugs and sighs. "I don't know. It's all pieces. It's mess."

She resigns herself to living in mystery like he's forced to. He has no context. She thinks it must be like … reading a book and later remembering a sentence from somewhere in it, but having no idea what page it was on. Seeing the page refreshes things, but until then, it's an itch that can't be scratched, and it **sucks**. She can't imagine having a lifetime become a jumbled mess like that, even with large chunks taken out of play.

"I remember Zola kicked ball," he says, smiling. "I said she do good."

"She kicked a ball?" Meredith says. "Like soccer?" Or kickball?

He looks at her, brow creased. "It's soccer?"

"Soccer is a sport," she says. "People kick a ball up and down a big field."

He nods. "Yes, this is it."

"Derek, Zola's never played soccer," Meredith says, a pit forming in her stomach.

He looks baffled. "But … I remember."

Maybe, the problem is he's not communicating what he's seeing accurately. Or she's misunderstood what he means. "Were there other people?" she says. "Or just Zola?"

"Yes, other kid," he says. "I tell them how."

Like he remembers being some sort of soccer coach. The pit hollows out. "Derek, that didn't happen," she says.

"But … it did," he says with disturbing certainty. "I remember."

"Zola's just starting kindergarten," she says. This is weird. This is wrong. "That's too little for soccer. The county league starts with first graders."

"But …." He sounds unsettled, and he shifts in agitation. "But … I remember."

She withdraws her hand from his shirt. "Maybe, you're mixing some pieces up?" she suggests in a calm tone.

"This is not piece," he says, shaking his head. "I remember all together. Everything."

She swallows. There's something wrong. Something wrong in his head. She's sure of it, now. Her nightmare spirals into MRIs and more surgeries and death before she can stomp it. "Does your head hurt?" she says, teeth clenching as fear locks her body in its cage.

He frowns at her.

"Derek," she says, more insistent. "Does your head hurt?"

"No," he says slowly. "I'm fine." He blinks. "The wine maked me dizzy, but …."

She glances at the table. But he's only had two glasses. Moscato has low alcohol content to begin with, and with food, that's nowhere near enough to do more than make him a teensy bit tipsy, let alone spur him to make crap up for her out of thin air. Her heart pounds.

He wraps his arms around her. "Meredith," he says, the word soft and low and rumble-y. "I'm okay."

"You're sure?" she says, unconvinced.

"I don't hurt," he says. "I … remember." He kisses her. "Maybe, you … forget?" he suggests in a gentle tone.

"Maybe," she says. But she's not convinced.

He bumps her with his shoulder and grins. "Split last piece?" he says, pointing at the congealing pizza.

She laughs. She's full to bursting. "You eat it," she says. "I want to watch Derek Shepherd eat pizza. Hell, I might get my camera."

He snorts, but he obliges her. When he picks up the slice, he gives her a humoring look. "This is irony, too?" he says. And then he takes a huge bite.

* * *

"I don't want to go!" Zola says. She's wrapped around Derek's leg, dressed in a jean skirt and a white t-shirt, her pink pony shoes on her feet, and a little pink backpack strapped on her back.

Meredith, Derek, and Zola stand in front of the big sign that says Briar Cliff Elementary with bronze lettering. The sign rests next to the roundabout. The sky is cloudy, and wet drizzle fills the air like mist. School buses fill the roundabout curb to curb, cars crawl everywhere black pavement covers the ground elsewhere, and people scurry back and forth across the school's lawn like ants. Cars honk. People chatter. A bell rings in the distance.

Derek shifts. "Zola, you need to go. It's important."

"But I want to stay home with you," she says. She sniffs, and tears fall.

And Meredith sighs. She crouches next to Derek's leg and strokes Zola's hair. "Zozo, you'll really like this if you give it a try. Annie will be there. Remember Annie? You met her on Friday."

"Yes," Zola says. But that doesn't seem to be enough to convince her.

"Kindergarten is so fun!" Meredith says. "You'll get to meet so many people, and make friends, and learn all sorts of new things. Plus, there's toys there! Lots of new toys!"

Zola presses her face against Derek's thigh, clutching at his pants. "I'm scared."

Derek looks down at her. He seems like he can't decide what to say.

Meredith pries Zola loose from him and pulls Zola into her arms, unwilling to let their daughter fester while Derek figures out how to approach this. "I swear, you'll like this," Meredith says. "Really, you will. I went when I was a kid. So did Daddy."

"You liked it?" Zola says.

Meredith nods. She didn't start hating school until later. Kindergarten got her away from her mother, and filled her life with socializing, and she loved it. "I did! I met my best friend at the time there. Her name was Jessica." She smiles at the memory. "Jessica Simmons."

Zola looks up at Derek. "Did you like it, too?"

Derek frowns. "I don't remember, Zo. I'm sorry."

"Oh," Zola says. "Because of the brain cut?"

"Yes," Derek says. He grips his cane, knuckles going white from his weight as he drops into a crouch. "I get scared many time," he confesses. "It's okay to get scared." He reaches to squeeze Zola's shoulder. "Mommy says this fun, though. I … I think you have fun."

Zola peers over Meredith's arm at him. "What are you scared of?"

"So much new things," Derek says. "All the time. Everywhere." He leans closer. "You know how I fix scare?"

Zola sniffles. "How?"

"I go see them," Derek says. He gives Zola a thousand-watt smile. "Things are … n-not …." He shakes his head. He thinks, lips trying to form words that aren't coming out. "L … less scare. Less. Things less scare when you know them."

Zola ponders that for moment. "He's right, Zozo," Meredith says. "I know it's scary, but you'll love it once you go in. I swear you will. I bet your best friend is waiting in there for you **right**. **Now**!"

"Really?" Zola says.

Meredith nods. She's kind of hoping Annie will fit the best friend bill, but she doesn't want to push, so she grins and says, "Really," without naming names.

Zola looks up at them. "Will you go in with me?"

"Yes," Derek says. "But only until door. Okay?"

Zola nods. "Okay." And she leaves the shelter of Meredith's arms.

Derek ratchets back into a standing position. Meredith takes Zola's right hand with her left, and Derek takes Zola's left hand with his right. "Ready to march?" Meredith says, injecting as much cheer as she can. And they walk Zola toward her future as an equal pair.

* * *

Cars swish past on the wet road. She's a speeder, she admits. But ever since Derek's accident, she's slowed down a bit, and she can't bring herself to go over the limit when the roads are wet. Not that wet roads have anything to do with his situation, but wet roads are kind of a Hallmark card invitation for Bad Things to happen to stupid drivers. Hell, even smart ones, if they have crap luck, and Meredith is crap luck's queen.

Derek's quiet on the way to rehab, more so than usual for a morning, his best time of day, when he's refreshed. She refuses to let herself worry about the wrong memory crap until she's talked to Derek's neurologist. She **refuses**. The quivering pit in her stomach isn't quite listening, yet, though.

She bites her lip. "Derek, are you okay?"

He lifts his gaze from the passing scenery and grins at her. "I'm fine."

"What are you thinking, then?" she says.

He shrugs. "I'll miss Zo."

A tiny sigh of relief escapes her lips before Meredith can stop it. She can handle the normal being-a-parent wrongness. Normal being-a-parent wrongness is much less scary to her than by-the-way-I-need-more-brain-surgery wrongness. She reaches across the parking brake and squeezes his knee. "You'll see her in the evenings and on the weekends." Maybe even afternoons, too, though Meredith's trying out the extended day option before asking Melody to go through the hassle of picking Zola up from school while also watching Bailey.

"I'm glad she's going," Derek says. He looks at Meredith. Another soft smile graces his face. "Glad. But I'll miss her."

Meredith shakes her head. "I just … can't believe she's gotten that old already. Old enough for school. I mean, seriously. I feel like we were signing adoption papers just yesterday."

He doesn't respond, and she realizes what she's said. Reminiscing about things he can't have any hope of remembering. Crap. But when she glances at him, he's still got that soft smile on his face.

"Tell me," he says.

"About adopting Zola?" Meredith says. She grits her teeth. She doesn't really want to reminisce about … that. God, she was so stupid back then. So was he. They were the king and queen of Moron Town, and they almost lost Zola as a result of their collective dumbness, and … it's not a fond memory. Going through all that.

"Not the bad part," Derek says, like he's read her mind, and she blinks at him.

"You remember the bad part?" she says, which disappoints her even more than the idea of sharing her recollections of it. He has so few memories. Why does he have to get stuck with a crappy one like that?

"No," he says.

She pulls her eyes from the road to stare at him for a moment. "Then how did you know there was a bad part?" she says.

His mouth opens and closes, and a syllable gets stuck in his throat. She waits for him to untangle his mental knot. The road rushes under the tires, and she pierces through the misty drizzle. Today is a gray day, but she focuses on the marvelous, verdant greens instead.

"You say thing with your face," Derek says. "You're … hmm." He shakes his head. "I don't know word."

Meredith swallows against the lump in her throat. "Expressive?" she says.

"This mean talk much?"

"Conveying thoughts and feelings," she replies.

He thinks for a moment. "Yes," he says. "Expressive."

He always used to do that. Read her mind. He never explained his secret before, though.

Except, she's not expressive. She frowns. People tell her she's cold. After the accident, she spent so many days in such crushing agony she felt like she couldn't breathe. She dove into her work. _Jesus,_ one of her interns said when he thought she wasn't in earshot, _her husband just got borked, and she's in the OR like a robot, stitching up someone else's problems._

"I know a lot of people who wouldn't agree with you," Meredith says.

But all he does is shrug and say, "They don't know you."

Her fingers tighten around the steering wheel. The lump in her throat is huge. She sucks in a breath. He's hugged her before. Held her while she's been upset. But … never this before. Never .…

"Are **you** okay?" he says.

All she can do is shake her head and croak, "Fine."

She's not fine. She's far from fine. But at least he seems to get what she means – that her lack of fineness doesn't mean bad things – and doesn't press her for details. For a long moment, she can't speak, so she reaches across the brake and grabs his hand while she navigates through traffic.

Derek Shepherd. Even after all this crap, he still has her back.

* * *

"I'm so sorry," says Dr. Wyckoff's secretary over the phone. Dr. Manfred Wyckoff is Derek's neurologist. "Dr. Wyckoff is out of the country this week and isn't taking patient calls unless it's an emergency."

"I don't **know** if it's an emergency," Meredith says, pacing in the hallway at work. She almost bumps into a discarded IV pole. She huffs a sigh, turns 180 degrees, and stalks in the opposite direction. "That's why I need to speak to Dr. Wyckoff!"

The secretary runs through a laundry list of symptoms that would constitute an emergency. Unexplained head pain. Loss of consciousness. A sudden behavioral change. Nausea. A blown pupil. Blah, blah, blah. Derek has none of those symptoms, and Meredith is forced to say, "No, he's not experiencing any of those issues that I'm aware of."

As soon as she has to say that, she knows she's lost the battle. The secretary is polite, sympathetic, and conciliatory, but the long and short of it is that Meredith will have to wait until next week when Dr. Wyckoff returns from his stupid medical conference.

Crap.

* * *

When she picks up Zola at the end of the day, neither Meredith nor Derek gets a chance to ask her if she had fun before she's babbling their ears off. Derek settles into his seat with a relaxed smile on his face. He's tired after rehab, and Meredith doesn't think he can keep up with Zola's word barrage, but Meredith smiles over the fact that he's not letting his exhaustion stop himself from enjoying the barrage, anyway. The cadence. The emotion. The excitement.

"So, did you make any new friends?" Meredith says as she turns into their driveway.

"Annie helped me with my blocks," Zola says. "And Olivia likes ponies!"

"You should take one or two with you tomorrow," Meredith suggests. "Maybe you girls can play with them at recess."

Zola seems to think this is the best idea since sugar.

* * *

"I have homework!" Zola announces on Tuesday from her car seat, and Meredith snorts at the thrill in Zola's tone. Meredith doesn't remember liking homework whatsoever, but she's not going to knock Zola's enthusiasm. Her daughter pulls a piece of paper from her backpack. "I gotta do this worksheet."

"Well, let's see if we can figure it out when we get home, okay?" Meredith says.

"Okay, Mommy."

* * *

Zola's assignment involves coloring in shapes according to type. She's supposed to color squares red, triangles blue, rectangles green, and circles yellow, and all the shapes are repeated in a jumbled collage full of different sizes. Derek doesn't help Zola with her homework by premeditated design, but he's sitting next to her at the table looking at a magazine when she starts her work. After Meredith gets Zola some crayons, Meredith takes a quick detour to the bathroom. When she comes back, Derek's scooted his chair over. He stares over Zola's shoulder, and when she pauses with her red crayon for a while to search, he points out shapes to her that she's missed. When they finish the squares, she exchanges her red crayon for a blue one.

Meredith smiles, watching them for a minute. Zola's homework is similar to one of the exercises Derek's speech therapist did with him, back before he was talking. Meredith remembers watching as the therapist set out different colored blocks and shapes onto a tray table, like twelve in all, and asked Derek to perform simple commands with them, like, "Pick up a green shape," or, "Point to the yellow circle," or, "Move the blue triangle."

Months ago, Meredith was happy just to watch him be able to do that – pick up green shapes and point to yellow circles and move blue triangles – and now he's helping their daughter with her homework. Meredith's staring at a literal miracle, and the swell of feeling she gets, watching that, overwhelms her to the point that she has to leave, because she doesn't want to risk interrupting the moment. She takes Bailey out to the swing set as an excuse to get out of the house. Bailey needs some mom time, anyway, and she has him giggling in minutes as she pushes him in the swing.

"Higher, Mommy!" he says, kicking his feet. "Higher!"

"Careful," she says. "We don't want to send you over the bar, do we?"

He gapes as he flies through the air. "Can go over bar?"

"I think probably no," she says, pushing him. "But let's not risk it, okay?"

"Okay," he grumbles. Two more swings, and then he adds, "Maybe **some** higher, Mommy?"

A grin stretches across her face, and she gives him a good shove. She loves the sound of his maniacal giggle as he zooms through the air. Maybe, she's imagining things, but she can hear a little of Derek in there. Laughing. Both men in her life have a great laugh.

Twenty minutes later, Zola wanders outside sans Derek with her homework assignment tucked under her arm. She wants her work checked. Zola and Bailey play in the sand while Meredith looks the assignment over. A lump forms in her throat when she finishes, and the avalanche of feeling that threatened to bowl her over before threatens again. Everything's right.

* * *

Meredith has a double-take moment when she comes out of her office after the kids are in bed, and she sees Derek lazing on the couch, eating strawberry cheesecake ice cream straight from the Ben and Jerry's carton. She snorts as she walks behind him into the kitchen. She will never get used to Glutton Derek no matter how many times she encounters him. Never. Not even after devouring a pizza with him. She grabs a wine cooler from the fridge, heads back into the living room, and collapses next to him.

"Want some?" he says, offering her his spoon.

She grins and takes a bite. The sweet cream melts on her tongue, and she allows herself a throaty mmm before swallowing. She watches as he consumes another spoonful of his own. The television casts moving shadows on his face, and makes his eyes glisten. He squints, like he's approaching the point where he can't make himself focus on something so bright, but he's not quite there yet.

Some guy in a Mariners uniform swings his bat, and the baseball goes flying into the air. There is no accompanying crack, since Derek's muted the television. She rests her head on his shoulder, watching with him. She doesn't like baseball, but she likes the company of the man she's watching it with. She sips from her cooler as he digs for another swirly pink spoonful.

Her mind drifts.

 _Admit it,_ she can hear him say in his haughty, cocky voice as she swallowed a spoonful of strawberry cheesecake ice cream. _You **like** my abstemiousness._

She blinked. _Your … abs_ _t_ _ewhatiousness?_

He kissed her ear. _You,_ he rumbled against her ear, _Ms. I'll-Eat-Anything-I-Fucking-Want-So-_ _ **There**_ _, are_ _ **not**_ _abstemious._

She snorted. _Why would I like the fact that you starve yourself from the joys of ice cream?_

He patted his flat belly. _Gives me my sexy, manly figure._

 _I do like your manly figure,_ she said with another snort, giving him a lascivious once over.

 _Hmm,_ he rumbled. _I thought so._ He quirked a predatory grin at her. _I like yours, too._

She giggled. _You think I have a manly figure?_

He rolled his eyes and pressed his lips to hers. _You know what I meant,_ he said in a husky voice as he pulled away. He licked his lips. _Hmm, you taste like strawberry_. He gave her a dirty look. _Allow me to live vicariously?_

 _Okay,_ she said. He shifted closer. His second kiss took her world away, and the rest of her ice cream melted in the bowl.

A fresh spoonful of ice cream in front of her eyes breaks her from her memory, and she takes another offered bite. She slides her hand over Derek's shirt, resting her palm flat against his heart. He hasn't gained an ounce despite his differing eating habits, now. Not that she'd mind if he did, but it's odd.

Then again … he spends three days a week beating the crap out of his body in rehab. People tend to have this funny idea that rehab is easy and gentle, but it's not. She's watched him in a session. The combination of heavy cardio and strength work is hard enough on his body that he's usually sweating smelly buckets by the end. Not to mention he takes hour-plus-long walks every day he's not in rehab. She supposes one of the benefits of him not working anymore is that he has enough time to take care of his body without having to deny himself what he wants. That's … a nice upside to this aftermath. That he can do that.

"Another?" he says.

An ice-cream-covered spoon hovers by her mouth again. She smiles. "Yes, please."

* * *

On Thursday night she finds the ferryboat scrub cap folded neatly on her pillow when she goes to bed. Derek's already asleep, so she can't ask him about it. The stain repair isn't perfect – no repair would have been for that kind of stain. The cap looks like someone poured coffee on it, but it's a step up from the opaque brown-black mess that used to be there. And, somehow, seeing all the ferryboats again makes her feel better.

* * *

"Mom help on phone," Derek explains on Friday morning, still buried in blankets. "The phone." He's not getting up, yet, but Meredith's alarm woke him, and since he muttered a bleary good morning at her, she's taken the Derek-initiated conversation opportunity and run with it like a football. "Sorry I ruin," he adds, a thick rumble into his pillow.

Meredith smiles. Kisses him. "It's not your fault," she says, touched that he made such a huge effort for her. "You didn't know. Thank you for fixing it."

"Hmm," he mutters, and then his breathing evens out as he surrenders back to slumber. His physical therapist had to cancel today, anyway, so he opted to skip the whole day. To store up energy for the game tonight.

She leaves the warmth of their bed to get ready for work.

* * *

Derek gets home from the basketball game so late on Friday night that it's almost Saturday. He's tired, and he's not talking, but Stewart leans out of the taxi cab window with his too-long frame, flashes her a shit-eating grin, and gives her a thumbs up. Meredith thinks maybe Stewart is exaggerating Derek's pleasure over the experience, but then she sees the smile on Derek's face as he hobbles toward the front door, and she thinks, well, maybe not.

"You're next!" Stewart says, tone ominous as he wags his wispy black eyebrows at her. He sinks back into the cab, and the car pulls away into the darkness.

* * *

"So, I went to medical school here," Sarah yells over the music as they bounce to the rhythm. "At the University of Washington."

The music throbs in Meredith's chest and in her skull. Strobe lights flash in the darkness. The air is hot like an oven, and sweaty people twist and writhe around them. The energy is a living, breathing thing. "How'd you end up in Manhattan then?" Meredith yells back.

"I'm **from** Manhattan!" Sarah says.

"Then how'd you end up going to medical school in Seattle?"

Sarah laughs. "I was kind of in this get-away-from-my-family phase, and it was the farthest away school in the top ten that would take me."

"You, too, huh?" Meredith says. "I did that by way of Europe."

"No way!" Sarah says. "I've always wanted to travel. Stewart and I plan to go to France when the kids are older. Any recommendations?"

"Just don't have sex in the lavatory on the plane. It doesn't go well."

Sarah cackles. "Oh, honey, I'd never even try. Stewart barely fits in one of those by himself, let alone with me in there, too." She gets a gleaming look in her eye. "Don't tell me you tried with-"

"No," Meredith says. "This was pre-Derek."

She and Sarah splurged and took a taxi downtown, so neither has to worry about being a designated driver. It's the most unadulterated fun Meredith's had in forever. But, holy crap, is she out of shape. She stops, panting, heart throbbing in her chest, and Sarah drags her to a hightop to sit at.

"What's your favorite drink?" Sarah shouts. "On me."

"Tequila," Meredith says. "Straight."

Sarah snorts. "You don't joke around, do you?" she says.

"I do when I've had more tequila," Meredith says.

Sarah laughs and bounces off to the bartender to place an order. She brings back two shots of tequila, and a big, umbrella-laden piña colada, and sets everything down on the table. Meredith takes the lime from the rim of the shot glass, salts the back of her hand, licks her hand, chugs the shot, bites the lime, and sucks.

"What made you pick cardiothoracics?" Meredith says when the fire in her throat dies down to a reasonable level.

Sarah shrugs and takes a sip of her piña colada. "There's just something awesome about holding a beating heart in your hand, y'know?" And then she snorts. "Wait, that makes me sound like the bad guy from _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_."

"A little bit," Meredith says. "But I think you have prettier hair."

They share a gigglesnort together. The room fuzzes around the edges. Meredith wraps her feet around the chair legs to stabilize herself.

"Why'd you pick general surgery?" Sarah says.

"Well, I was gonna go neuro," Meredith says. "But Derek and I had a phase where we didn't play nice in the OR together."

"So, you swapped specialties?"

"Yeah," Meredith says. "My mother was a general surgeon. General surgery was my original preference, anyway." Before Derek smashed into her life like a wrecking ball and knocked loose all her plans.

"Grey," Sarah says. "Grey, Grey .… Wait." Her eyes go buggy again like they did when she figured out who Derek was. "Ellis Grey was a general surgeon. You're **that** flavor of Grey?"

"She was my mother," Meredith says.

Sarah blinks. "Crap, Mere. Can I call you Mere?" Meredith nods, and Sarah continues, "Mere, between your mom and your husband, you're buried in a huge damned pile of all-star surgical pedigree."

Meredith glowers. "I know."

Sarah frowns. She sips from her drink. "Sorry. Sore subject?"

Meredith shrugs. "I want to be an all-star, too. I want …." She swallows as her heart squeezes. She grabs the second shot. Lick. Chug. Bite. Suck. "Ugh," she blurts as the sin settles in her stomach. "I'm working on some research projects involving pancreatic islet cells, but …."

Sarah grins. "You'll rock it. You seem pretty go-getter to me."

"I wish I had your confidence," Meredith says. She blinks and pulls at her collar. Sweat trickles down the small of her back. Her body is a furnace. "Can I tell you a secret?"

Sarah pantomimes a zipper sliding across her lips, though the gesture is a sloppy, tipsy one. "Anytime."

"Sometimes, I feel guilty," Meredith says. The music grinds against her eardrums.

"Why guilty?" Sarah says.

"Derek wanted to move to D.C. to work on a brain mapping project, and I wouldn't go. The long distance situation with me and the kids is what caused his accident. I mean not caused, caused. Just … he wouldn't have been in the situation where his car was hit, if I hadn't put my foot down and refused to leave Seattle."

Sarah frowns. "Why didn't you want to leave?"

Meredith sighs. "It's just … my home is here. My beautiful home that Derek and I planned together and had built from the ground up. This is where Bailey was born. I have so many memories here. And all my friends are here. Not so many anymore," she says, thinking of Cristina gone. Izzie gone. George, Mark, and Lexie all dead. "But I still have Alex and Callie, and now my half-sister Maggie, and Derek's sister Amelia lives out here, now, too."

"So, a lot of roots," Sarah says. She giggles, and she nods. "You're a tree."

"Yeah," Meredith says with a snort. "That's me. The tree." But then seriousness slides back in like a tide. "Plus, I .…" She swallows. "Plus, there's the research projects I mentioned."

"You couldn't have pursued those in D.C.?" Sarah says.

"I could have," Meredith admits. "But I don't have even half the clout in the medical community Derek had, not even now. I have pull at Seattle Grace specifically because of my history here, but trying to build a patient base from scratch and forming enough professional connections to make an expensive research project feasible in D.C. would have set me back a few years. I want to do something for the medical field **now**. I want to contribute." She grabs one of the limes she sucked to pulpy pieces and tears at the leftover skin. "I want to make my **own** freaking clout."

Sarah nods. For a moment, she doesn't speak. And then she says, "Well, that's stupid. Stop that." She swallows. "I do mean that in the nicest possible way, though. I swear."

Meredith raises her eyebrows. "Stupid?" she says. "What's stupid about wanting clout?"

"Nothing," Sarah says. "It's stupid feeling guilty for wanting it, though."

"But-" Meredith says.

"If you're gonna go all loose cause-effect for your crushing guilt, you might as well blame yourself for meeting Derek in the first place," Sarah says, steamrolling Meredith's protests. "And I bet you meeting him has done some bad shit to you, too. If you're going to blame you, do we get to blame him for meeting you, too? I mean, this should be an equal-opportunity guilt-mongering. Shouldn't it?"

Meredith blinks. "Well … he did encourage my irrational fear of commitment to bloom from a bud into a big-ass flower."

"That bastard!" Sarah says. "Gamophobia is the worst. What else?"

"Gamowhatia?" Meredith says, shaking her head at the fuzz.

"Fear of commitment!" Sarah says, and Meredith laughs. Everything is funnier with tequila. Sarah seems to think the same of piña coladas, because she takes a sip. "Sorry, I'm a Latin snob," Sarah says. "Please, continue blaming Derek for things. What else has he done?"

"Lied," Meredith says, chuckling. "He's a lying liar who lies. He was married when I met him, and he didn't tell me."

"No way!" Sarah says.

"Way!" Meredith replies. "I found out when his leggy, fabulous, not-hate-able wife showed up at the hospital one night. Hence the … the … gamo .…"

"Phobia," Sarah finishes for her.

Meredith nods. "The gamowhatia. Right."

Sarah snorts. "I think that deserves another shot or five," she says, and she slides off her stool to stumble back to the bar. She comes back with two more tequila shots.

Meredith kicks back the first one without any encouragement. Lick. Chug. Bite. Suck. "Ughhh."

"So," Sarah says while Meredith pants, trying to cool down her throat. "Where were we?" Sarah sips from her drink. "Right! Derek's a **lying** bastard. Anything else?"

"He's a shark, too," Meredith says. "Though he would never freaking admit it."

Sarah nods. "A lying bastard **shark in denial**." She sips until she slurps, and then she's back to the bar for her second piña colada. "What else?" she says when she returns.

Meredith laughs. "Stop!" she says, giggling. She points her finger at Sarah, but her fine motor control is waning. Her finger waves in the air like she's drawing squiggles, which only makes her laugh more. "You're ruining my perfectly good guilt trip with … with … with logic."

"Hmm," Sarah replies. She takes a sip. "Mostly just tequila, I think."

And they burst out laughing. Tequila's the best comedian in the world, and Meredith almost forgets what they're even talking about.

Sarah continues, "All hilarity aside," slurring each s into infinity, "let's at least find the real culprit. Okay?"

"Who's the real culprit?" Meredith says.

Sarah stares at her. "Um .…"

"I think we might be too drunk to find the culprit," Meredith says.

"No, no," Sarah says. "Wait. I got it. The Big Bang." Sarah winks. "If there was no Big Bang, we wouldn't have to worry about any of this stuff, would we?"

"Yeah, let's blame physics," Meredith says with a snort.

"Well, I mean, why not?" Sarah says. "Since we're being irrational?"

Meredith picks at another lime. "Look, I get what you're saying. I appreciate it. I just-"

"Your dreams are just as important as his," Sarah says, cutting her off with vehemence. "And his accident was an **accident**. Don't let anyone tell you different, not even you. And don't ever feel guilty for that. Okay?"

"It's hard sometimes," Meredith says. "Internalizing that."

"I know," Sarah says. "I get the whole being married to a superstar thing, both current and former. Believe me, I do." She grins.

"I .…" Meredith blinks. "Yeah, I guess you do, huh?"

Sarah tips her glass toward Meredith like a toast, and she says, "Here's to dreams without guilt."

Meredith looks down at her last tequila shot, biting her lip. Why the hell not? She picks up her shot and clinks the glass to Sarah's. Lick. Chug. Bite. Suck. "Ughhhhhh."

"C'mon," Sarah says, setting down the skeletal remains of her piña colada. "Let's dance s'more."

"I like s'mores," Meredith says.

They laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And then they dance.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Notes:**

Hmm. Another slow weekend. Where did all you guys go? Can you send some vacation my way? :P

* * *

 **Week sixteen.**

On Sunday, she wakes up to a puke-y, spinny feeling and headache to the nines, and she can't open her eyes to more than slits, or the sunlight stabs her retinas like serrated knives. Something's weird, though. Something …. She blinks at the clock, squinting as she struggles to get the red blur to resolve into digital numbers. Twelve … something, the clock face says. She slept until freaking noon?

The first time Zola slept through the night without crying, Meredith remembers waking up much like this, much like a blind snaps open when one pulls the cord too hard, and blurting, "Oh, my god, she's dead."

In this moment, she feels like that – they're dead, they're dead, they're dead – and she stumbles toward the living room in search of her children. She skids to a stop in the archway, though her socks' lack of traction on the hardwood floor makes the skid more like ice skating than braking. Her heart pounds. Zola sits at the dining room table, fork in hand, as she chews noisily. Bailey's in his highchair working on the same thing. Macaroni and cheese with a side of … something green and vegetable-y.

"Hi, Mommy!" Bailey chirps.

Her jaw drops. "Where's …?" she says, but as her gaze wanders, she answers her own question. Derek's sitting on the couch, watching the television on mute. Not a baseball game this time, though. ESPN is airing one of the WNBA games from last night on delay, and he sits engrossed as both teams, one wearing red jerseys, one wearing turquoise ones, zip back and forth on the court.

He pulls his focus away from the television with a little difficulty. His gaze softens when he sees her. "Good morning," he says. "Did you had fun last night?"

"It's not morning," Zola announces.

Derek snorts. "Yes, you're right."

Meredith nods, struck dumb. He's been watching the kids by himself for .… She does mental calculations. The kids rarely sleep past seven or eight. Which means he's been flying solo without trouble for about five hours, now.

Her stomach churns, and she manages to croak, "Hang on a sec." She darts back into the bathroom to heave. Nothing comes up, at least.

It's not until she's coming back out of the bathroom that she realizes he left her a glass of water and two acetaminophen on her nightstand next to her clock. She was so beside herself with worry when she woke up that she didn't notice them before. She chugs his thoughtful offering, both touched and amazed beyond words. For some things, no words are appropriate, anyway. Like finding out her brain-damaged husband who barely survived and, nine months ago, could barely speak more than a syllable at a time, let alone walk, has come so far he's supervising their kids, feeding them, leaving out painkillers for Meredith to treat her hangover, and watching a basketball game on ESPN with full comprehension loitering in his twinkling eyes.

Wordless though she is, when she collapses onto the couch next to him, nursing a much-needed cup of coffee, she does say, "Thank you." He doesn't say anything in return, but the smile he gives her in place of sound devastates her, and when he presses his lips to her cheek, she thinks, maybe, this is it. Really it. The moment she mistakenly thought she had when she first brought Derek home so many weeks ago.

The moment where the universe stops picking on her.

* * *

Alex finds her on Monday with a newspaper tucked in his hands. He sets down the local sports section from Saturday in front of her, next to her cereal bowl, and smacks the paper. "Explain," he says.

She blinks. "Explain what?"

He rolls his eyes. "Photo. Caption."

She squints at the black-and-white photo, and her jaw drops. The benched Seattle Storm players all sit in a row, chair by chair. A man wearing a suit paces along the line, arms folded. Meredith thinks this might be the coach. Behind all the Storm players, though, is what made her jaw drop. Stewart's on his feet, mouth open like he's shouting, and he's gesturing at … something. Derek stands beside him, and the photograph has captured him mid-clap. At least, Meredith thinks that's what Derek's doing. Clapping. She glances at the caption. "Former N.Y. Knicks center, Stewart Manning, 39, spotted with friend. Could this mean a coaching shakeup for Seattle Storm? Manning says, 'No.'"

"What am I explaining?" Meredith says. "The caption seems pretty clear."

Alex sighs. "That's Derek, right? Next to Manning. Or am I hallucinating?"

Meredith swallows. She pieced together that Stewart was some sort of big deal, but seeing him the subject of a newspaper article is still a bit of a shock. "Yes," Meredith says. "That's Derek."

"So?" Alex says.

"So, what?" Meredith says.

"You're going to make asking about this like pulling teeth, aren't you?" Alex says.

Meredith shrugs. "You're asking for a story that's not mine to tell."

She's never had a famous person for a friend before. She's not even sure Stewart wants people knowing he lives out here, though she imagines if he keeps taking Derek to basketball games, his change of locale won't stay secret for long. She thinks, though, she might ask if Stewart minds bringing Alex and Jo along, too, for Meredith's basketball indoctrination. Maybe, they could make a triple date of it. Or something. That could be fun.

Alex glowers, but ceases his questioning.

She glances at Alex. " **If** I were to procure tickets to a game like that," she says, gesturing to the Seattle Storm photo, "would you be interested in going?"

Alex stares back at her, his gaze searching, like he's trying to read between the lines. " **If** you were to do that," he says, words slow and cautious, "I think I'll never bitch about being your person again."

She snorts. "Never's a long time," she says.

A tray slaps onto the table, and Callie slumps into the chair next to Meredith. "Hey, guys. What are we talking about?"

Alex snorts. "Derek's apparently buddies with one of the greatest NBA players of all time and has failed to mention it, and Meredith won't explain even though I'm supposed to be her person." He shoves the newspaper at Callie.

"Wow," Callie says, skimming the article. "Isn't that against the person code?"

"Person code?" Meredith says.

"Well, you drag dead bodies for each other, right?" Callie says. "Why not explain famous friends?"

Meredith blinks. "How did you …?"

Callie smiles. "Mere, I may not be your person, but I do listen, you know." She looks down at the article again. She snorts. "This reporter seems to think this Manning guy showing up at a WNBA game is a sign of the apocalypse or something."

Alex shrugs. "The women are just as skilled as the men, but typically not as fancy to watch. No dunking and stuff. They've been trying to gain traction with the public for years because of that. Him showing up at a game on a whim because he wants to watch some basketball is a big fucking deal. That'd be like Derek doing a corpus callosotomy at some hick hospital that barely has more than one functioning OR."

"Really?" Meredith says. "He's that big of a deal?"

Alex looks at her like she's a lot more than one marble shy of sanity. "Yes, Mere," he says slowly. "He's that big of a deal. That last playoff game, he-"

"Don't tell me specifics!" Meredith snaps. "I promised him I wouldn't Google."

Alex's eyes widen.

Meredith sighs. "Crap."

Sometimes, she really sucks at keeping her trap shut.

* * *

She gets a call from Derek at work on Tuesday while she's wrist deep in the abdominal cavity of a man with a spread of metastatic tumors on what feels like every internal organ he's got, and she grits her teeth. She's in no position to chat right now. "Can somebody answer that?" she says, hoping it's not an emergency. "Use short sentences, and talk really slowly." She turns to Dr. Peters, and says, "I need more hands in here."

"What are you looking for?" Dr. Peters says.

"The tumor I'm trying to get out." Dr. Peters frowns, and she sighs. "Yes, I know this guy has like fifty tumors."

"Dr. Grey," the nurse says, "Dr. Shepherd wants to know where you keep the Transformers Band-Aids."

Meredith blinks and looks up from the body cavity. "The what, now?"

"Transformers Band-Aids," the nurse repeats. The skin around her eyes crinkles, and Meredith doesn't see a smile with the surgical mask in the way, but she can guess that's what she's looking at. "From the racket, it sounds like there may be a casualty."

Meredith frowns. What the freaking hell? "Um, the medicine cabinet in the hallway bathroom, second shelf up. I think."

The nurse relays the message. Pauses. "He says thank you." The nurse puts Meredith's cell phone back on the tray with all the other phones and pagers, and Meredith goes back to finding her tumor.

* * *

When she gets home from work with Zola in tow, she finds Bailey with a Transformers Band-Aid stuck to his forehead like a badge of honor. Derek's waiting by the door to greet her with a kiss. She sinks into his arms with a happy sigh as Zola runs past them into the house. Melody gathers her purse from the countertop.

"Hi, Mommy!" Bailey says. "I got a head cut like Dada!"

Meredith blinks. "I can see that."

Melody smiles. "Just a tiny mishap on the swings. Nothing to worry about. Derek patched it up while I finished making lunch."

"Dada fix it!" Bailey says.

"I can see that, too," Meredith says, letting a small laugh fall from her lips. "He's a good doctor, isn't he?"

Bailey nods with a sage expression. "His Band-Aid better than yours, Mommy."

Meredith snorts as she glances at Melody. "I'll see you guys tomorrow!" Melody says, swishing her frizzy brown hair out of her face as she departs. Meredith and Derek watch her car churn gravel as Melody backs down the driveway.

Derek's arms tighten around Meredith's waist when the sound of exhaust is a distant hum. He meets her eyes with a shocking blue gaze. "Sorry I bother at work again," he says.

"You calling is never a bother," she says.

"A nurse answer," he says. A pause. A swallow. "Answered."

"I just had my hands full of liver," Meredith says. "I promise I wasn't bothered." She leans up on her tiptoes and kisses him. "You're the opposite of a bother. I **like** to hear from you when I'm at work."

He stares at her for a long moment, and his guarded expression melts away. "Okay," he says. He searches her face. "Should I … call more?" he says, words hesitant.

She grins. "I'd like that." She brushes her fingers through his hair. "But don't feel like you have to. I know you hate the phone."

He shrugs. "I hate less when I call you."

* * *

Stewart drops by unannounced a little later. He's wearing his thin knee brace, the one he can drive in, and he has his cane. The sun hangs low in the sky over the trees on the western horizon.

"Hi!" Stewart says when Meredith opens the door.

"Stewart," she says. She smiles. "What's up?"

"Well, see," he says. "I'm supposed to be going for walks every day because my physical therapist is a sadist and likes it when I suffer, and it occurred to me at the dinner table today – according to Sarah, I may have even said, 'Eureka!' – that Derek's probably supposed to be walking every day, too, and why not kill two crippled birds with one stone?"

Meredith snorts. Derek walks in the mornings, usually, but she doubts he'll mind going out again, today. "Derek," she says, calling back into the house, "Stewart's here for you."

"Think we could make it around the lake before the sun sets?" Stewart says, frowning at the sky.

"Hmm," Meredith says. "He takes about an hour to walk all the way around it. I don't know about you."

"Hello," Derek says as he approaches the door, a curious look on his face.

Stewart flashes a big, friendly grin. "Feel like going for a long, romantic limp by the lake with me?"

* * *

"It's kallt false memory rekognition," Dr. Wyckoff says on Thursday with a reassuring smile. Dr. Wyckoff is one of the best neurologists in the country. He's so sought after that he's unable to accept new patients, and the only reason he took Derek on was professional courtesy. Between his crazy schedule and Meredith's crazy schedule, this is the first time she's managed to flag him down since he got back from his conference in Luxembourg. "Nosing to be koncernt about, konsiderink vhere Dr. Shephert hit his head."

Dr. Wyckoff is Dutch, but he's been in the United States for the majority of his professional career. He's a towhead blond in his early forties, and he speaks with a not-so-faded Germanic accent that makes him sound foreign and exciting. His office at Seattle Grace is a stuffed shoebox full of papers and books, and it has a musty smell. The only furniture he has room for is a desk and two chairs. The wall clock ticks like a slow drum beat.

"False memory recognition?" Meredith says, frowning. She never learned about that in medical school. Too specialized?

Dr. Wyckoff nods. "Yes. He probably dreamt it, and he's konfusink it viz a real memory."

Meredith's jaw drops. "He was telling me about a dream he had without realizing it was a dream?"

Another nod. "People viz frontal lobe damage sometimes have problems differentiatink betveen dreams and memories."

"Wait. You mean confabulation?" Meredith says. She's heard of that. A lie told without intent to deceive. It's common with Alzheimer's patients. Her mother used to do it all the time. Talk about trips she'd never taken, things she'd never done, events that had never happened.

Dr. Wyckoff nods. "Yes, exactly, but a shpecific kint of konfabulation."

"So, I shouldn't worry?" she says. Her chair squeaks as she shifts.

"No," he says. "It's normal. I assure you. Unless it's interferink viz his daily life in some vay, I don't see a reason to be koncernt."

Meredith shrugs. "Okay."

"If it happens again, it's best not to argue viz it," Dr. Wyckoff says. "He thinks it's zee truz. He remembers it as truz. It vill be less shtressful for him if you play along."

Meredith nods. Now that she knows what the hell is going on in Derek's head, she's happy not to argue with him about the validity of what he remembers. Still, it's a bit scary, though. She's used to seeing this kind of thing in patients with dementia and Alzheimer's. Not people like Derek who are lucid. The idea that part of his ability to differentiate between reality and not reality isn't working is a cold reminder that her husband is, in some ways, irreparably broken.

* * *

Meredith comes home late Friday evening, way past the kids' bed times. The nanny's car isn't in the driveway, but the front light shines, welcoming her home. As Meredith steps through the door into the entryway, she hears the murmur of voices in the dining room – Derek's familiar tenor lilt, and Amelia's higher-pitched cadences.

Meredith hangs her coat in the closet and heads toward the sounds of talking, eyebrows raised in surprise. Amelia volunteered to be Derek's rehab shuttle and Zola's school bus today, given the emergency that held Meredith back in the operating room for an additional three hours past the end of her shift, but she had no idea Amelia would also volunteer to stay in place of the nanny until Meredith finished up with work.

"Hi!" Amelia chirps as Meredith steps into the dining room. "I decided to stay and visit since I was already out here. I hope you don't mind."

Meredith shrugs. "Of course, not."

"Put kids bed," Derek says. A wince. He thinks for a moment. "I put. The kids. To. To." A pause. "To bed."

Meredith grins. "Thanks." She glances at Amelia. "Are you staying overnight?"

Amelia raises her wrist to glance at her watch. "Oh, shit," she murmurs when she sees how late it is. Almost 11:30 p.m. "Uh. Yes? Is that okay?"

"Of course, it's okay," Meredith says as she pulls up a chair to join them. "So, what are you guys up to?" As soon as she asks the question, she doesn't miss the frustrated twitch in the skin around Derek's eyes, though he doesn't reply.

"Derek wanted to practice reading out loud," Amelia says.

Meredith glances at the tabletop. Two books rest midway between Derek and Amelia. The larger book – one of Meredith's old hardback anatomy textbooks from college – sits on top of the smaller paperback, keeping the little book cracked open. _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_. True to Amelia's word, she's been reading a little bit of it to Derek whenever she visits. Their progress is slow, because he needs clarification and word definitions on a somewhat regular basis, but they've been making headway nonetheless. Meredith doesn't think she's ever seen Derek try to read from the book himself, though. He's still reading at the primer level, and _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ is way too complicated for him. Not to mention reading aloud is a skill that, to him, has become akin to surgery in its difficulty, thanks to his aphasia.

"What brought this on?" Meredith says, frowning.

Amelia shrugs and gives Meredith an expression that says, _Beats the hell out of me …._

Derek glowers, but doesn't answer, which is odd. This whole thing is odd. Derek **hates** reading aloud.

"Well, don't let me stop you," Meredith says, pushing her chair back. "I'm going to grab something quick for dinner. Do you guys want anything?"

"No, thanks," Amelia says.

Derek shakes his head.

Meredith frowns all the way back to the kitchen.

* * *

"The …." Derek says, and then he grinds to a halt as Meredith steps back into the room with a steaming Hot Pocket resting on a small plate. She slides back into the chair she vacated a few minutes earlier.

A syllable catches in Derek's throat as he stares at the page, fingers resting at a point midway down. He swallows, and he looks toward the ceiling while he thinks. Something keeps hitching in his throat. Amelia's hand rests on his back, a silent bastion of encouragement. She doesn't pressure or prod. After what feels like a minute of stumbling, Derek shakes his head.

"I can't," he says. "I can't. I know … I know this … word. I know I know, but I …." He sighs. "It so hard." He leans forward, scrunching his fingers in his hair as his breaths tighten with frustration.

"It's okay," Amelia says. "What flies in the air and has feathers?"

"A bird," he replies with only minor hesitation.

Amelia grins. "There you go." She points to his place on the page. "You just said it."

He doesn't seem happy about this, though. He squeezes his eyes shut, jams his elbow into the table, and puts his face in his hands. A curdled, frustrated breath catches in his throat.

"How did you do that?" Meredith says, curiosity burning as she takes her first bite of dinner. A glob of cheese and pepperoni stuffing hits her tastebuds. She chews and swallows.

"Broca's Aphasia is picky-choose-y," Amelia says. "Sometimes, if the type of conversion changes, something he can't say becomes simple. In this case, I changed text-to-speech into thought-to-speech."

Meredith nods. Interesting. Dr. Wyckoff never mentioned that possibility before.

"Changing to a homonym can also work," Amelia says. "I had a patient once who couldn't say spoon as in the metal object you use to eat with, but she could say, 'It's that thing you use to spoon things with.'" She shrugs. "The human brain is a weird piece of machinery."

"Yeah," Meredith replies. "It really is." She frowns when she looks at her husband, though, who seems about as thrilled with this whole reading-out-loud thing as a surgical resident would be about sitting in a gallery instead of cutting. "Derek, are you okay?"

"This is so frustrate," he says. He clears his throat roughly. "Frustrate. Frustrate. Frust …." He gives up trying to correct himself with a sigh. Between a long day at rehab, and how late it is, Meredith's surprised he's even still **this** coherent.

Amelia rubs his back. "I know. I know it is. Do you want me to read to you for a while instead? Maybe, we can finish chapter six."

"I don't want more tonight," he says in a glum tone. "I don't want more word."

"Okay," Amelia says. She pushes Meredith's anatomy book off the paperback and dog ears the page she and Derek stopped at. She frowns. "I'm sorry this is so hard for you."

He snorts but says nothing. His gaze is a vicious one, like he's debating throwing his fist into something, or taking a baseball bat and smashing a ring. He pulls his fingers through his hair in a gesture eerily similar to Old Derek venting irritation or upset, and he pushes his chair back. He leaves the room without comment, and Meredith hears a door close deeper in the house, not quite a slam, but with a level of tense finality that makes her think of a restrained tiger or something.

"Okay, seriously," Meredith says. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't **know** ," Amelia replies, half-mystified, half-irritated. "He just out of the blue wanted to try reading the book. Was I supposed to say no?"

"No, I just …." Meredith sighs. "Sorry. It's just hard to see him so frustrated."

Amelia shakes her head. Her chair creaks as she leans back and looks at the ceiling with a wet expression. "You know, I've had so many patients with Broca's over the years, but I've never had the reality sink in like this before."

"What reality?"

Amelia shrugs. She picks up the book and stares at it with a grimace. "Can you imagine going through life with a head full of ideas and no way to tell anybody about them? For **months** , we thought he didn't remember a goddamned thing. Now, I have to wonder if there isn't more tucked away that he knows, but can't tell us about. Like … does he remember when Dad was killed? Or … surgery? Does he remember how to be a doctor? I mean, those things are hard enough to describe when you don't have to fight with yourself for every syllable you say. What if Derek's all there, still, just … locked away?"

The hope in Amelia's tone puts a lump the size of a softball in Meredith's throat. "He's not all there," Meredith says.

"But how do you **know**?" Amelia says.

"He has huge gaps."

"Well, how do you know he has gaps?" Amelia says, desperation in her tone. "I mean how do you **know** when he can't say 90 percent of what he's thinking?"

Meredith licks her lips and sighs. She hates to kill Amelia's sudden stroke of optimism, but …. "He doesn't remember Addison. He doesn't remember meeting me. He doesn't remember when Bailey was born or anything about adopting Zola. I had to explain to him that his kids are his kids. He didn't know what a scrub cap is, or that his ferryboat scrub cap is special. He has **huge** gaps, Amelia. He can't describe what he remembers very well, but he can say no or shake his head with very little effort, and this is all stuff I've either asked him about point blank, or he's told me."

Amelia slumps. "Oh."

"He's not all there," Meredith says. "A lot about him is different. But he's still him at the root. I really believe that."

Amelia snorts. "When did you get to be all unicorns and rainbows?"

Meredith shakes her head. "My husband had his head smashed. He has permanent deficits as a result. I don't think that's really a unicorns and rainbows scenario." She swallows. "But if I look, I can still find him, and that's enough."

"Enough for what?" Amelia says.

Meredith shrugs. "To keep moving forward."

* * *

Birdsongs fill the early morning hours after dawn. The covers are warm and cozy, and the blankets rustle as Derek sighs and shifts against her back. He has a morning erection, and it presses into her spine, but she doesn't say anything about it. She loves this closeness, sharing this space with him, and she doesn't want to spook him.

"Why did you want to read aloud yesterday?" Meredith says.

His grip tightens around her body, but he doesn't answer her.

She squeezes his forearm as she stares at the wall on her side of the bed. "Please, tell me?"

"Zo … question me," he says. A frustrated bluster of air hits the back of Meredith's neck as he growls at himself. "Ask. Ask. She asked me read story, but … I can't."

"Oh," Meredith says, swallowing. Oh, crap. She rolls to face him. He looks back at her with an upset expression that breaks her heart. She pushes her fingers through his hair. "What book was it?"

"Something about a cat," he says, frowning. "Henry?"

" _Cross-Country Cat?"_ Meredith says. Zola loves that one.

"Yes," Derek says. "She wanted me read her at bedtime."

"I'm sorry," Meredith says.

She doesn't think there's anything else **to** say. This isn't a fixable thing. It's just a thing. And it's broken. Reading to himself in his own head is a skill he'll regain as he broadens his vocabulary, and his word comprehension improves, but reading aloud is something he's not likely to get better at, no matter how good his vocabulary is or how long he spends practicing. From the sad look on Derek's face, he knows it, too. Yesterday was his brief dance in denial. Today, after sleep, he's taking his cold bath in truth.

Amelia's words haunt her. _Can you imagine going through life with a head full of ideas and no way to tell anybody about them?_

Meredith swallows. "Derek, I'm sorry this happened to you," she repeats.

Derek has no reply for that, though. Instead, he inches across the mattress, into her space. He kisses her. Halitosis be damned. She welcomes him.

She's thankful that love can be a thing without language.

* * *

The kissing gets out of hand on Saturday night. They start lying on their sides in bed, facing each other, gazes hooded in the dim lamplight. She pushes her fingers through his hair, and he presses his lips to hers. She invites him in, drinking him. Her eyes close. Her insides tighten. His hand slides down her body. She loses herself in the sensation of him, body to body, breath to breath. Their limbs tangle. Somehow, she ends up on top of him. She's lost to everything except the desire vibrating through her like she's a tuning fork, and she's not thinking straight. When she feels his erection pressing against her bellybutton, she drops a hand to cup him through his boxers. He makes a delicious, discombobulated sound that coils in his throat and sends shivers down her spine, and then the moment breaks as he snaps back from her.

"Sorry," she says, panting. Her body aches with a lack of completion, an emptiness that has persisted for months, but she ignores it with iron will. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. I got carried away."

He lies on his back, breaths heaving in his chest, not speaking. He covers his face with his hands.

"Sorry," she says again.

"No, it's …," he says. He swallows. "This should be … okay. I .…"

She frowns and rolls into his side. She touches his face. "Nothing should or shouldn't be okay. Your comfort level is something that just is, and you're not allowed to feel guilty for that." He stares at her through thick eyelashes. She kisses him. A gentle lip press to his temple, meant for comfort. "Seriously, don't worry about it."

"I want it to be okay," he says in a frustrated tone. "I want .…"

She swallows. "Look, don't force it, okay? That just leads to badness."

He peers at her. "You have … forced it?"

She bites her lip. "Yes," she confesses. "I was young, and stupid, and impulsive, and I let a guy pressure me into it at a party before I was ready." She remembers the awful churn of nausea when she found a used condom on her thigh. She remembers crying for days afterward. She remembers the endless showers that never left her feeling clean. Her first time. And the only reason she ever had a second time was because she let herself fall into the same cycle again. And a third. By the end of high school, she jaded herself into thinking sex was only a thing used to kill a physical need, and she made it through her life all the way to Derek without ever having her views challenged.

But, boy, did he flip all her mental tables upside down.

His eyes narrow. "You're … upset."

She blinks the blur out of her eyes. "My first time having sex. I thought he loved me, and I didn't want him to leave." She wipes her face with her hands. "I have this thing about abandonment."

"Did he?" Derek says.

She swallows. "Leave?"

He nods.

"Yes," she says. "I woke up alone. He used me, and then he left."

"I'm … sorry," he says.

"Why?" she says. "It wasn't you."

"Yes, it was," he says.

Her jaw clacks shut, and she lies there, speechless for she doesn't know how long. "I thought you didn't remember Addison," she says.

"I don't," he says. He touches her face. He stares into her eyes. "But I know I left. I have … pieces."

"What pieces?" she says.

"I remember … this horrible … crush .…" He pulls her hand to his breastbone. His voice cracks. "Here. Horrible. I thought I maked mistake about you. Made. M-made. I thought I can't fix it."

"Oh," she says. She's not sure she's ever heard his raw, un-doctored interpretation of events. She squeezes his shoulder. "That was a long time ago," she says. "And you did fix it. We fixed it."

"But it happen," he says.

She licks her lips. "Yes."

"How did we fixed it?" he says.

She smiles at him. "Love fixes a **lot** of busted stuff, you know. Not everything. But a lot."

"I …," Derek says.

Dim lamplight hugs the bedroom with a soft glow. The sound of crickets flutters through the open windows. "What?" she says when he doesn't say anything else.

He looks at her. "Love," he says. "Tell more what it mean."

For a moment, she's not sure what to say. "Um," she says, mind churning. "You mean like the feeling? Or …?" Sex?

He rolls onto his stomach and props his head up with his elbows jammed into the mattress. He smiles at her. He's in her space. Intimate. "You say you love me," he says. "What is this … to you?"

"Well, I .…" She touches the small of his back, runs her fingertips along the curve of his spine to the nape of his neck. "When you hurt, I hurt. When you're happy, I'm happy." She pauses for him. "When I hurt, I want you there to take it away. When I'm happy, I want to share it with you." She shrugs. "I just love you."

He nods. "And sex … say this?" A wince. "Says?"

She licks her lips. "Not with everyone you do it with. It can be a purely physical thing that doesn't have meaning. That's all it used to be for me until I met you."

"Desire," he says.

"Yes, that's the physical side. We talked about that."

"I remember," he says. He swallows. "Meredith, I want .…"

She searches his face. "What?"

"I want this to be okay. Sex with you."

She looks him in the eye, unblinking. He taught her sex can be about love. That when you add an emotional component beyond the physical, sex can be more than scratching an itch. It can be a union. A safety zone. A shared truth. An affirmation. Sex can be making love, and that's not a euphemism. He taught her that, and she wants to give that back to him, no matter how long it takes. If that means forever, if he never gets there … well, then she supposes her gift to him will be making sure he knows that's okay. Because to her, **that's** what love is. "I don't mind that you're not ready," she says. "I swear, it's okay."

"But … I want it," he says. "Without force, how can I …?" His mouth opens and closes. He makes a noise deep in his throat. "Sorry," he says with a crushed look on his face. "I wish I know … word."

"Don't apologize for that," she insists. She pulls his hand into hers and squeezes it. She thinks. "There's a difference between forcing yourself and testing the waters to see if you like something."

"Testing …?"

"It's an expression," she says. "It means trying something out to see if it's comfortable."

"What will we test?" he says.

She shrugs. "Well, touching you seems to be a no-no, still." She thinks. "Maybe, just looking? Or touching me, instead?"

"Looking?" he parrots.

She nods. This is either going to be a resounding success, or a horrible failure. The last time she tried this in his presence without even intending it to be sexy, he freaked out and ended up sleeping in another bedroom, but … they've been through so much since then. Said so many things. Maybe, it's okay, now. And she'll never know if she doesn't bite the bullet and give it a go.

"Say no if this is bad, okay?" she says.

His tone is wary when he says, "… Okay."

She shifts, gripping the waistline of her t-shirt, and she slips the shirt over her head. She's dressed for sleep. She has no bra. She's still wearing pants, though. She's starting slow.

His gaze dips below her neckline. She lets him look as long as he desires. And he does desire. He's not obvious about it, but his breathing changes. Derek was a visual-oriented creature before the accident. It seems like this facet of his personality has stuck like glue.

For a moment, he doesn't speak. The mattress creaks as he inches closer. He clears his throat. "Can I …. Can you … turn over?"

She frowns. "I can just put my shirt back on if you're not comfortable."

He shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says. "Please, turn?"

She's not sure where he's going with this, but if it helps .… She flips on her other side, facing away from him. He slides across the mattress into her space, and he wraps around her, his shirt pressed to her naked skin. He pulls the covers up, and then he wraps his arm over her hip, and his hand comes to rest against her belly button. He pulls her body against him. They interlock like puzzle pieces.

She swallows. He's spooning her. Not waking up spooning, but … choosing to spoon. A subtle distinction, but a big one. She reaches to turn off the lamp. He pushes his nose into her hair and kisses the back of her neck.

"I love you," she says into the darkness.

He doesn't say it back, yet, but she hopes he's getting closer.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Notes:**

Well, you got me. I'm officially behind. But I figured when it came down to it, you'd rather me post chapter 17 than respond to chapter 16 comments :) Thank you so much for all the kind words and feedback. I really appreciate it! I'll see if I can get caught up again this weekend. I love chatting with you all. That's one of my favorite parts of posting a story.

In other news, I'm still adding a little here and there as I go. You can thank porny beta for the fact that Meredith's vibrator is now officially a great example of Chekhov's Gun. I'll let you guys ruminate on what I could possibly mean by that.

So, this chapter. This gets some balls rolling. (Why, yes, porny beta, I did say balls. Whatcha gonna do about it? :P) One of said rolling balls (*snort*) is my favorite non-porny arc in Reclaim, which basically goes from 17-22. 19, 20, and 22 are my favorite chapters in the whole story. The other ball (PORNY BETA, ARE YOU LAUGHING YET?) happens to be of a more ... adult variety, which will culminate in the final chapter. But I promise there's lots of fun on the way there (Reference: Chekhov's Gun).

*ahem*

 **Anyway.**

I think/hope you'll like where things are headed! I'd love to hear your thoughts :)

* * *

 **Week seventeen.**

Stewart and Sarah aren't just becoming good friends. They're lifesavers. Figurative in Stewart's case. Literal in Sarah's. There's a massive pileup on the interstate on Sunday, and Meredith's beeper splinters the silence of the early morning despite her not being on call. Melody is out of town this weekend, and, while he's managed to take care of the kids on his own in small doses while Meredith has still been in the house somewhere, Meredith is nowhere near comfortable asking Derek to take care of them 100 percent by himself. The hospital daycare is a last ditch option, but she doesn't want to lug the kids an hour to work on a Saturday if she doesn't have to, so she calls the Manning house. At 6 a.m.

A thick, half-asleep, male voice answers the phone. "Please, explain to me why I'm getting a call this early?"

"Stewart?" she says. "It's Meredith. I'm so sorry to bug you, but I've been called in to work because there's been a gigantic multi-car pileup on the freeway, and I have nobody else to ask. Is there any chance you or Sarah could watch the kids for me this morning until … I don't know when? I'm happy to pay you, or, or, or I'll watch Lindsey and Annie for you sometime so you can go out and do whatever. I just don't want to drag my whole family into work on a weekend if I don't have to."

A long silence stretches on the other end of the line, and Meredith bites her lip. Having learned what Derek needs to have a successful phone conversation and committed it to her phone etiquette for **everybody** , she's reluctant to open her mouth again until she hears Stewart say something, but .… "Stewart?"

"That was … many words," Stewart says. "My word comprehension limit before coffee is five."

Meredith frowns. "Will you watch … kids … now?"

Stewart lets loose a full-body guffaw into the phone. "You actually stuck to the limit."

"I'm good at paring down," Meredith says.

"That you are, my little grammarian," Stewart says with a chuckle. "You need me right now?"

"Yes," Meredith says. "I'm so sorry."

"Not to worry," Stewart assures her. "For how long?"

"No freaking idea," Meredith says. "Maybe, overnight."

"Okay," Stewart says. "I'll be there in fifteen. One request, though."

"Anything," Meredith says.

"I'll be very cross if you try to pay me for this," he says, "but you better have a gallon of coffee in the pot for me when I get there."

Meredith grins. "What kind do you like?"

A pause follows, and then he says, "The kind made with coffee."

Meredith snorts. "Okay, see you soon," she says.

He laughs again. "You realize it's now my goal in life to make you say more than five words before I've had my coffee." The phone disconnects before she has a chance to respond.

She pads into the kitchen to brew Stewart his morning pick-me-up. Once that's started, she flies back into the bedroom to take a quick shower and throw on some clothes. She glances at the bed. Derek's still sleeping. She doesn't think he'll be upset to find Stewart in the house instead of her when he wakes up, but .… She steps close to the bed.

"Derek?" she says. He doesn't budge. She splays her hand against his spine and gives him a slow rub toward his neck. "Derek?"

He squints at her. "Hmm?"

"I have to go to work," she whispers. "Stewart will be here. Okay?" For a long moment, he stares through his eyelashes at her with no comprehension, so she repeats, "I'm going to work. Stewart will be here for the kids. Okay?"

"Okay," he says, and then he falls back into slumber like he's been pushed off a ledge.

When Stewart arrives at the front door with a sleeping Annie draped against his hip and shoulder, and a groggy Lindsey standing by his busted knee, Meredith is surprised to find Sarah waiting there, too. "Think they could use more hands?" Sarah says. "I called St. Mary's, and they faxed all my credentials to Seattle Grace."

* * *

Seattle Grace is a war zone. Screaming, bloody people fill the emergency room and hallways. The hospital closes to incoming trauma, because it can't deal with more patient intake. Body bags are stacked like sardines in two of the examination rooms, which have been converted to makeshift morgues until things calm down, and more time can be diverted from saving the living to handling the dead.

"What in the hell happened?" Meredith says.

Owen barely glances up from his triage assessment of a victim. "A semi transporting propane jack-knifed and exploded," he says. "Webber needs help in OR 8. Go there." He looks up at Sarah and frowns. "Who are you?"

* * *

Every OR is full. Every OR has another patient waiting in the hallway outside. Nurses and doctors struggle to keep the waiting patients stable. There's shouting, and crash carts, and scurrying, and chaos. The whole freaking hospital is like one big ferry crash.

Maggie's in OR 7 with her hands buried in a chest cavity, massaging a heart, when Meredith pokes her head into the room. "Maggie Pierce, Sarah Manning, my friend," Meredith says. "Sarah, Maggie, my half-sister."

Maggie looks up from the operating table, a grim look on her face. "The surgeon on loan from St. Mary's?"

"Yes, that's me," Sarah says. "Where do you need me?"

"OR 6 is waiting for cardio, but we have nobody spare to send, yet," Maggie says.

Sarah nods. "On it."

Meredith points Sarah toward OR 6, and Meredith heads to OR 8.

* * *

The situation at the hospital is a bit like a hairy drain clog. For hours, it feels like there's no end to the chaos, and Meredith thinks maybe this **will** go overnight, but then, around dinnertime, the Drano starts to work, the clog loosens, and the chaos snaps into control in an eye blink. Meredith closes her last patient at 5 p.m., and by 5:30, she's got nothing left to do. Sarah wraps up at 6, and by 6:15, they're making the drive home.

Stewart greets them at the door to kiss Sarah hello. Meredith says her thank yous and her goodbyes.

"Dad," Lindsey says as they make their way to the car, "can we get ice cream?"

Stewart gives her a raspberry. "I think I can arrange that after we drop off Mom, so she can sleep," he says. "Saving the world is tiring, after all." He looks at Sarah with a wink. "This is assuming by ice cream, you mean frozen custard. Because who wants ice cream when there's frozen custard?"

Lindsey laughs, and Annie says, "Yay, I want custid, too, Daddy!"

Stewart gives Sarah an affectionate smile. "Our little Starshine wants custard, Sarah. How can I say no to that?"

"Babe, you can't say no to **anything** ," Sarah counters with a snicker.

"Hey, now, I can say no to a piña colada," he responds.

They walk out of earshot, and Meredith can't hear Sarah's reply. Meredith leans against the doorframe, eyes burning with exhaustion. Derek sidles next to her, not speaking. When she turns to look at him, he's staring at Stewart, who's folding into the driver's seat of his beat-up old station wagon like a giraffe contortionist trying to squeeze into a suitcase. Something loiters in Derek's eyes. Something .…

"What are you thinking?" she asks him.

When Derek's gaze shifts to her, he says, "I wish … I can … do this."

She looks at the station wagon as Stewart backs it out of the long driveway. "You want to learn to drive again?" she says.

Learning to drive might be feasible eventually, but Derek's still a bit too slow right now. Not at learning to perform tasks, or at making sense of non-verbal information and cues – he's smart like a whip, still, with regard to that – just … thinking and reacting in general. He's smart, but he's smart at a slow pace.

"I …," he says, but that's all that comes out of his mouth for a long time. He swallows, and he says, "Yes, I want to drive, but .…" He struggles for a moment, mouth working while he churns on what he wants to say. He gestures at where the station wagon once was. "I wish … I can … do this."

She frowns. If he doesn't mean driving, then what the hell does he mean? Usually, she has an inkling of what he might be trying to articulate, because she knows him, she knows his verbal hiccups,

and she's had over ten months of practice talking with him, ever since he learned his first word, "No." Times like this, though, she can't even begin to guess what he's driving at. When this happens, it's best not to fake comprehension, because he **is** smart as a whip when it comes to the nonverbal, and he can peg a faker in a nanosecond. She's watched his sisters do it to him – try to placate what they feel is meaningless gibberish with a nod and a smile – and he **loathes** it.

"Derek, I'm sorry; I don't understand you," she says.

He sighs a frustrated little sigh, and he slumps. He stares at the empty driveway with an expression she could almost call longing, but hell if she has any idea what there is to long for about this scenario. "I don't know word," he confesses. He looks at his feet. "Never mind." And then he walks back into the house to see what the kids are up to, leaving her flummoxed on the stoop.

* * *

When Derek takes the next baby step, she almost misses it. She's doodling on her laptop on Monday night with the bedside lamp on, a little tired, but not tired enough to sleep. She knows it's a bad idea to have her laptop out right before bed. She knows that the light from the screen supposedly screws up sleep cycles or something – she's read articles about it – but she's never noticed having trouble herself, and she likes to play solitaire to make time pass. There are far more complicated games out there, with far better graphics, but she's never been much of a computer person, or a game person in general, so solitaire works fine for her as a boredom killer.

She's so focused on her game, she doesn't hear him enter the room. He's getting a lot better with his weak leg, so the odd shuffle-slide of his gait is almost nonexistent, even without his cane, as long as he's rested. When he opens the top drawer of his dresser, and the wheels slide along the tracks, that's what shakes her into paying attention. She looks over the edge of her laptop's screen to see him standing there. A pile of clean clothes sits on the top of the dresser, about a foot lower than his eye level.

At first, she thinks nothing of it. Usually, he stacks up what he wants on the top of the dresser, bundles the stack under his arm, and then he takes his clothes into the bathroom with him to change. But then she blinks, and she realizes what's different. He's got his shirt off. Except for the time she got him drunk, he hasn't taken his shirt off in front of her since before the accident.

His back is turned, and he hasn't said a word, so she won't, either.

She licks her lips, staring at his pale skin in silence. At the slope of his spine. At the way his sweatpants come to a stop just above his where his torso cleaves apart into legs. He looks .… She swallows. God, he looks good. He has sixteen freckles on his back. Sixteen that she hasn't counted or tasted in over a year, and she finds her gaze flicking back and forth as she tries to locate them all from memory.

He still hasn't said a word. Hasn't done a single thing to draw attention to himself. His back is turned, and he's not looking at her, but rather at some fixed point on the wall, which seems like kind of a pointed thing he's doing to give him courage. She doesn't want to embarrass him. She doesn't want him to never do this again. What she wants is to climb out of bed, walk over to him, and touch, or lick, or, god, anything, but she refuses to let her desirous whims succumb to the eye candy he's giving her and ruin this moment. So, she swallows again, and she licks her lips, and she bites her tongue to keep from saying anything.

His body moves like a wave, and his muscles flex as he raises his arms over his head. She supposes one of the side benefits of being in intensive rehab is all the strength training. She knew his arms looked good because she can see those all the time, but … his deltoids. Rhomboids. Trapezius. Lattisimus dorsi. All of them are beautiful. Streamlined. Bunching. Rippling. A fresh, black t-shirt slides into place, a literal blackout to end the twenty-second show.

She thinks, maybe, that's all he'll give her today before he retreats to the bathroom to change the rest of his clothes. But then his sweatpants drop to the floor in a heap at his ankles. His black boxer-briefs, too.

Her breaths tighten like a screw in her chest. Derek has always had a very nice ass. But what she sees now .… His glutes and hamstrings are freaking amazing.

She wants to call his physical therapist and weep a thank you into the receiver, because Derek is gorgeous. She's not sure why she's so surprised; motor problems related to TBIs tend not to produce muscle atrophy like motor problems related to spinal cord injuries, and, in fact, while they won't affect bulk, they can increase muscle tone, because lower motor neurons compensate for weak signals from upper motor neurons by firing more. Sort of like … a healthy person can shout once to send a message over a long distance, but someone with laryngitis might need to repeat a whisper six times to be heard, and thus the vocal cords end up doing more work even with quieter resultant sound. She shakes her head. Maybe, she's being silly. Maybe, the fact that this moment feels like a hallelujah chorus screaming in her head is the result of sexual deprivation, and Derek's not really Adonis.

She doesn't know. She doesn't care. She'll bask in the show as long as he's willing to give her one.

When he bends to get his legs into his boxers, not only do his what-must-be-less-than-15-percent-body-fat quads bunch and flex, his legs spread, and she can see straight through to the front. She gets a second or two to glimpse his package before he pulls up his boxer-briefs, and he shoves his hand underneath the waistline to arrange himself inside of them. He pulls on his sweatpants, next. No socks. And then he's done.

Something flickers, and she looks down to see her laptop screen wink out because she hasn't touched the touchpad or typed in too long, so she misses the look on his face when he turns around. She's not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing that he won't be sure if she was watching. By the time she looks up again, he's stepping into the bathroom, and she only sees him in profile for a moment before he's gone. He doesn't shut the door all the way, and she can hear him brush his teeth.

She frowns. If he thinks she wasn't watching him, will that make him more or less likely to do that again? Like, _well, crap, that didn't work, guess I won't do that again_. Or, _well, crap, that didn't work, guess it's try, try again._

Holy hell, she hopes he keeps doing that.

* * *

Meredith has no freaking idea how Bailey gets his hands on a steak knife. All she knows when she enters the living room is that Derek's sitting on the couch, watching, and Bailey has a knife in his hands. Time stretches like a rubber band. She makes a point not to run, or to snap at Bailey to put it down, because that might startle him into dropping it on his toes or something. When she gets to him, she takes the knife from his hands with a gentle motion, and says, "Bailey, we don't play with knives."

Bailey bursts into tears as soon as his new toy is taken away, and Meredith sighs. Her preferred method of discipline when she sees the kids doing something she doesn't like is to distract them with a more positive activity. But when her kid is holding a sharp object, she doesn't have time for subtlety.

She takes the knife back to the kitchen, noticing the open dishwasher, which must be where Bailey found his bounty. She puts the knife back in the butcher block, closes the dishwasher, and then returns to the living room to deal with Bailey, but Derek's already working on calming him down.

"Bailey, I know you wanted to play with that," she says as she sits beside Derek, "but you can't do that. That knife is sharp and could hurt you."

"I want," Bailey wails.

"I know you did," she says, sighing.

"But I want!" Bailey repeats.

"I know."

The minutes pass, and she and Derek sit with Bailey while he winds himself down. "Why don't you play with train?" Derek suggests when Bailey's sniffles start to space out a little. Derek points at the bin Bailey keeps his train stuff in. Bailey has scads of interlocking track pieces, and he loves to rearrange them to make new rail networks.

"Dada, pay train wif me?" Bailey says.

Derek nods. "If you build track, I'll play."

"Okay," Bailey says, tone woeful, but he slides out of Derek's lap, intent on his new assignment.

Meredith watches Bailey pull out his train track pieces from the bin. She shakes her head. Derek's freaking amazing at dealing with tantrums. She wishes she was half as good at talking the kids off ledges. But … what in the hell was the knife thing about? She has no idea what the possible explanation could be. None. Derek knows what knives are, and he was looking right at Bailey when Meredith came into the room. He doesn't discipline the kids, yet, doesn't function as a father in that respect, but he's shown more than once he's willing to step in if he sees them doing something dangerous. The thing with the poison oak comes to mind. Maybe, he only noticed the knife right as Meredith discovered the issue, too.

"Bailey, can you take your train stuff to your room?" she says.

Bailey looks up from his project. "Dada pay wif me in room?"

Derek nods and smiles. "Yes, I'll join when you have track."

Meredith watches, silent, as Bailey puts everything back into the bin and drags it all to his room. As soon as Bailey's out of earshot, she says, "Derek, did you see that Bailey had a knife?"

His eyes narrow. "Yes."

For a moment, she sits there stunned, realizing she still hoped for the answer to be no. "Well, why the hell didn't you take it away from him?" she snaps.

He flinches. "I .…"

Derek shifts back and forth in his seat, responding to her tone with agitation of his own, and Meredith takes a deep breath. She needs to be calm for this discussion. Calm, calm, calm. She doesn't want another scrub cap disaster. Derek loves the kids. Loves them. He wouldn't do something like this out of malice. Just like he didn't destroy the scrub cap out of malice. Something got lost in translation somewhere. All she needs to do is find the wrong turn he took, and point him back in the right direction.

"Derek, can you tell me why you didn't take the knife away?" she says in a calmer, less confrontational tone.

He shrugs. "I didn't wanted it. Why will I take?"

For a moment, all she can do is gape. Something got lost in translation, all right. Holy crap. What on earth? He diverted the kids from the poison oak without hesitation. He gets the idea of protecting them from hazards. Why is a knife different?

"You can't let the kids play with knives," she says.

He looks at her like he looked at the Candy Land board when Zola arbitrarily told him to move his piece backward. Like he thinks Meredith's changing the rules on him, which … makes no sense to her. She's pretty sure not letting kids play with sharp things has been a rule since the dawn of time.

"Okay," he says, but he sounds dubious, and he's shifting in his seat again like she's upset his worldview.

She frowns. "You get that knives are sharp, right?"

"Yes," he says.

"Then … why are you upset?" she says.

"I …," he says. An agitated breath blusters from his nose. "I .…" He swallows, and he shifts in his seat. "I don't … understand."

She blinks, boggled. "What don't you get?"

"I use knifes lots," he says. "Should not I use knifes?"

Silence stretches as her mind grinds to a halt.

Now, she gets it. Where the hell this went wrong. Sometimes, she forgets. She forgets that Derek's "common sense" knowledge base has been obliterated. He doesn't have fifty years of life experience to base his judgments on anymore. He doesn't "just know" a lot of the stuff people "just know" by the time they become adults, because his childhood is gone. He's by no means a kid. He can make good judgments with the information he does have. The problem is that he has next-to-no information when compared to a normal adult.

"Derek, what's okay for **you** to do isn't necessarily okay for a **kid** to do," she says.

"Why?"

She considers for a moment how to answer this. "Is stabbing yourself with a knife bad?"

He looks at her like she's sprouted five heads. "Yes .…"

"Why is it bad?" she says.

Silence stretches before he says, "It will hurt."

"Kids don't think like that," she says. "They don't consider the future when determining what to do, now." He seems flummoxed by that explanation, so she adds, "They don't understand consequences. Not like you do."

She waits while Derek digests that. He stares at his lap while he puts pieces together. While he makes connections. "They don't think about the hurt?"

"Right," Meredith says, nodding. "Exactly right. They don't think about that."

He frowns. "Why not tell them about hurt?"

"You can, and you should, but you can't trust them to act on that information the same way you would," she says. She pauses, lets him catch up. "That's why you should take knives away."

"Knifes can hurt," he says. "And I keep Bailey and Zola safe."

She nods, shoulders slumping in relief. He gets it. She can't imagine what this must be like for him, trying so hard to understand so many rules in such a short time, only to keep having exceptions tossed at him. Most people have eighteen years or so to build up a common sense bank before they're thrown to the wolves. Derek's had a matter of months, and he's had to deal with verbal processing deficits at the same time.

"What other things do you think might be bad for Bailey and Zola to have?" she says.

He thinks for a long moment. "Scissors?"

"Yes, that's a good one. The kids shouldn't be playing with scissors. What else?"

He frowns. "Forks?"

"Right. They shouldn't be playing with forks."

He pulls his fingers through his hair and pinches the bridge of his nose. "But … we let them eat with forks. So .…"

"Yes," she says, "but only when we're watching them."

"But knife is never?"

"Knife is never," she confirms. "Not until they get older."

"I …," he says, and his voice trails away. More agitated shifting.

She bites her lip. She hates that he has to try so hard. She gives what she hopes is an encouraging smile. "This is a lot of stuff, I know," she says. "What are you confused about?"

He thinks. And thinks. "Why are … fork and knife … not same?"

Crap. This is where the common sense thing comes in. Where most adults just know something is wrong or right. "A fork can cause harm, yes, but it's a lot easier to cause harm with a knife." She puts her hand on his shoulder, squeezes, and then rubs his arm. "This is something that takes practice." She pauses. "You get a feel for what's okay and what's not the more you have to make judgments about things." Another pause until he looks like he's caught up. "You don't have to know it all right away. That's why Melody and I are here."

He swallows. "… Okay," he says, but he sounds like he's barely hanging on at this point.

"If you have any doubts about something you see the kids playing with," she says to wrap things up, "just take it away, and we'll talk about it when there's time."

"Okay," he says. He pulls his fingers through his hair and looks at her with guilt. "I'm sorry I didn't took the knife."

She sighs and wraps her arms around him. "It's okay," she says. "I know all these conditional rules have to be frustrating to learn."

His _tell-me-about-it_ look hurts her heart. She hates that he has to deal with all this crap. She kisses him. He sighs in her arms, and she holds him without talking for a while. Giving him a break to not think and just be is the best thing she can do for him right now, and she does it happily.

"Dada, I have track, now!" Bailey calls from his room a few minutes later, and Derek pulls himself from her embrace like a sloth. He seems reluctant to leave the silence she's given him, but he trudges away anyway, and she admires his dogged determination to keep his promise to Bailey, even when he doesn't want to.

He'll get there. He'll be able to parent. It'll take a while, but he will.

* * *

He does his striptease that night, exactly like he did the night before, facing away from her, and Meredith watches, unabashed. This time, after he dresses, when he turns around, she meets his gaze without blinking. He blushes red like a tomato and breaks eye contact. She hopes she didn't sabotage his progress toward being comfortable around her.

"Why don't we supervise paper?" he says as he slides into bed.

She blinks and looks over at him. He's talking, which means he can't be that embarrassed. He rarely talks at night even when he's fine. "Why don't we … what?" she says.

"Why don't we supervise paper?" he repeats.

She frowns. "Supervise paper?"

"Yes," he says.

"Derek, I have no idea what you're trying to ask me."

"Did I said … a wrong word?"

"I don't know," she says. "I heard, 'Why don't we supervise paper?' Is that what you meant to say?"

He frowns. "Yes, I meaned that. Meaned." He looks at her with a question in his eyes. "Meaned?"

"Meant," she says, since he's asking. "Meant is the past tense of mean."

"I meaned …. I meaned .…" He squeezes his eyes shut, and he makes a noise deep in his throat. A growl. "I meaned .…" He stares at her like he's clawing for a life raft. "I meaned .…"

"Derek, I can understand you, either way," she says.

"I want to talk … right."

"I know you do, but you don't have to torture yourself. Please, don't torture yourself for me. I hate that you're hurting yourself for me."

His eyes are wet. He brushes his face with the back of his palms. "I want to talk right to you," he says. "I hate … talk. I h-hate."

"I know," she says, a lump forming in her throat. She reaches across the pillow and puts her hand on his shoulder. His skin is warm and radiates heat through his t-shirt. His face is mottled with red, either frustration or embarrassment, she doesn't know. She opts to steer them back to a language problem they might be able to fix. "So, tell me about this paper thing you were asking about. Can you try to rephrase your question?"

"Why don't we supervise paper?" he says.

"Right," Meredith says. "That. Can you explain what you're trying to ask me in smaller pieces, maybe? Or … reword your question?"

He thinks for a moment. "You don't watch the paper sometime. Why?"

She frowns. She fights the urge to sigh. She hates when this happens. When she can't see where he's running with his verbal football, not even when he's trying to accommodate her confusion. She wonders if this is how he feels when he's trying for the fifty-seventh time to understand something **she's** saying. "Why would I watch paper?" she says, calm, conversational, sitting on the trunk of her mental car while her frustration squirms within, trying to escape the duct tape she's slapped across its mouth.

He sighs, and he thinks. "The kids … use paper."

"Yes," she says, nodding, still not seeing where the hell he's going with this. "The kids use paper."

He closes his eyes and thinks for a moment. His lips move, like he's trying to sound something out. "Knifes are … never. We supervise … forks. Why don't we supervise … paper?"

"Oh! Oh, I get it," she says as comprehension dawns. Though … she still doesn't quite … get it. "Why do you think we should supervise the kids when they have paper?"

"Paper can hurt," he says.

"You mean the kids could get a paper cut?" she says.

"Yes," he says. He pauses. "Paper cut."

She rolls onto her stomach, scoots closer to him, and lies flush with him. "A paper cut is negligible," Meredith says. "It's possible, yes, but not likely, and a paper cut won't do serious harm."

"Okay," he says.

She peers into his eyes, trying to see if he's satisfied with this explanation. He seems okay, though she feels like she can see wheels turning behind his irises. Like he's reviewing every possible thing the kids could ever touch and evaluating the harm it could cause.

She snuggles close to him, pulling the covers tight. She kisses him through his t-shirt. She loves that he's still thinking about things. Still making connections. "We can't keep the kids safe from **everything** ," she says. "If we tried, we'd go crazy."

"I don't want you to be crazy," he says.

She snorts. "Exactly. I'm glad that you're thinking about this stuff, though."

He swallows. "I want to keep them safe."

"I know," she says, and she dips to kiss him. His lips are soft, and he looses a deep, soft, "Hmm," as she plunges to taste him. "I love you," she murmurs against him. "You're a great dad." His eyes are wet when she pulls away. She brushes her thumb against his cheek. "What's wrong?"

He clears his throat with a rough exhalation, but he doesn't speak. He gives her a pleading look, one she knows all too well. He's has a lot to say, but he has no idea how to say it.

"What do you have the words for?" she says.

"This hurt … took from … me," he says.

"What?" she says.

He pulls her hand to his mouth, and he kisses her fingers. Then he holds her palm to the side of his head. She flexes her fingers. Her fingertips meet scalp. She traces the ugly dent made by his craniotomy scar.

"This took from me," he says.

"I know it did," she says. She shifts, and she kisses his hair over the scar. "I'm sorry."

"I'm … okay with some take." He swallows. His lower lip quivers. "Other takes … I … I … hate."

Her heart squeezes. "I know," she says. She pulls her fingers through his hair. "I know you do."

"I .…" A noise gets stuck in his throat. His mouth opens and closes. And opens and closes. Another noise. His eyes shut. His mouth keeps working, trying to push out a syllable that doesn't want to come out.

She's not sure she's ever seen him get stuck this badly before. Not in a long time.

"It's okay," she says. "Don't force it. We don't have to talk anymore."

He gives up, but he huffs a frustrated, blustering sigh that says he doesn't want to.

He doesn't want to give up.

He wants to tell her the stuck thing.

"I'm here," is all she can think of to offer him. She hates that she can't help. She can't imagine what it must feel like to have every word you know seem like a tug of war against a sumo wrestler to say, and every word you don't know outnumber the known a zillion to one. He's the strongest person she knows, persevering against that crap without becoming a snapping, snarling monster who's angry all the time.

"I love you," she repeats, committing the words to the silence between them, because it's something that bears repeating.

* * *

She gets another strip show on Wednesday night. She thinks he might do it every night this week.

* * *

On Thursday, after he's had a chance to sleep, and it's a non-rehab day, she starts him on a tour of the house again, this time with a mind for child hazards. To keep things from turning into an information overload, she opts to do one room a day, and she starts with the kitchen.

"What in the kitchen do you think might be bad for the kids to have?" she says.

He fixates on the oven without pause, and he points out the knives and forks again, but after that, he's out of ideas.

"What other sharp things can you think of?" she says to prod him along.

He pulls out a cheese grater, a pizza cutter, an apple peeler, some cookie cutters, their whole set of six potato nails, a bottle opener, a corkscrew, and a meat thermometer. It takes him some more thinking, but he grabs the blades from the inside of the blender, too. He doesn't know the names for everything, so he summarizes his pile with, "All this things."

She smiles, pleased at how fast he's realigning his thinking now that he's been made aware of the issue of child thoughts versus adult thoughts. Language and wiped memory issues aside, he's still really freaking smart, and it sucks to her that other people don't see him that way.

"What do you think might burn?" she says.

He thinks. "The toaster?"

"Yes," she says. "Anything else?"

He frowns. "I don't know."

She opens the drawer with the matches. "Matches are a never. Like knives," she says. "Pretty much any time the drawer has a child lock on it, it has something that's a never in it."

"Okay," he says.

She points him to the dishwasher and says, "The dishwasher is bad, too."

"Why?" he says.

"If you leave it open when there's stuff in it," she says, "the kids can get at things that are usually locked away."

"Oh," he says. And then he reddens. "I left the dishwasher open Tuesday."

"I thought that might be what happened," she says.

He swallows. "I'm sorry. I didn't meaned to make not safe."

"No harm done," she assures him. She squeezes his shoulder. "And, now, you know, so you won't do it again."

"I do know," he says. "I won't." He shifts from foot to foot and pulls agitated fingers through his hair.

"What's wrong?" she says.

He gives her a long look like he's trying to tell her something with his expression, but she has no idea what. "I want to keep them safe," he says.

"You will," she says, and she flashes him what she hopes is an encouraging smile. "That's what we're doing this for."

He looks like he wants to say something, so she waits, eyebrows raised. "I … I …," he says, and then he gets stuck again like he did Tuesday night. A syllable pops in his throat. After what feels like an eternity, he slumps and says, "Never mind."

She doesn't pester him about it. That would accomplish nothing except to make him feel worse. But she has to admit, now, that her curiosity burns.

* * *

On Thursday night, Derek doesn't put on sweatpants over his boxers. He sleeps in his underwear and a t-shirt. Like he used to before the accident. She's not sure whether to say anything or not. Something like, "Derek, you look so freaking hot." She doesn't want to spook him, but she also wants to let him know what he's doing is something that she likes. She opts for silence, for now. A holding pattern.

* * *

Stewart and Sarah decide to condense wildcards on Friday this week. Stewart stays home with Derek and the kids while Meredith and Sarah go out to see a movie, and everybody is happy. Meredith can't remember the last time she saw a movie. Sarah's a junk-y eater, too, and she and Meredith split a ginormous tub of butter adorned with a little bit of popcorn to watch what feels like the fourteenth sequel to _Pirates of the Caribbean: the Curse of the Black Pearl,_ but Meredith doesn't mind, because Johnny Depp, and Sarah doesn't mind, because, well, Johnny Depp. Plus, there's pirates. One can never go wrong with pirates.

* * *

On Saturday night, Derek loses the t-shirt, and in a peculiar mirror of last week, he sleeps spooned up against her, warm skin to cotton.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Notes:**

Thank you so much once again for the lovely comments :) I love you guys!

* * *

 **Week eighteen.**

"Can we try …?" Derek begins on Sunday night, hesitant. He doesn't say what he wants, but she can guess. She slips her shirt over her head. They sleep together half-naked under the sheets.

* * *

The cool thing about having friends who live only a ten-minute drive away is that Meredith can do crazy things like eat dinner with them on a weekday. Tuesday, to be exact. Meredith catches Stewart alone in the kitchen between dinner and dessert, rinsing off the dishes while Sarah, Derek, and the kids chat at the dinner table. She stands in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, biting her lip. She can't keep putting this off. Asking him. It's just … the Mannings slid into her life like a missing puzzle piece she didn't even know was gone.

Derek's happier, because he's got a social life again, and even better, said social life is with someone who doesn't judge him and isn't reminding him every other second of before, before, before. Beyond basketball and slow walks, Stewart and Derek have discovered they share a lot of interests, too, or, at least, interests in interests. Stewart wants to try camping at some point, and he wants to try the fishing thing, too, next time Richard comes over for a lake outing. Stewart's made a list of tourist traps he'd like to check out, and Derek wants to go along.

The only points of contention seem to be baseball and beer. Stewart's appalled Derek has no taste for beer, and Derek's appalled that Stewart hates baseball, but all this has resulted in is Derek promising to try more kinds of beer if Stewart watches a baseball game with him, and Stewart one-upped that by offering to take Derek to a Mariners game at Safeco field, as long as Derek drinks beer with him while they watch, at which point Derek may or may not have exploded with excitement and offered to drink all the beer on the planet.

It's kind of a match made in heaven, and Meredith's happier, too, because she has a person again. A real, full-fledged person. Not that Alex was doing a crappy job or anything. Alex was a great person, and if Meredith ever killed anybody, she'd trust him to help drag the body in a heartbeat. But Alex and Meredith don't share much in the way of common interests outside of work other than drinking. He filled the confidant role, but never the friend part, and a person is supposed to be an amalgamation of both. Sarah loves clubbing, and going to movies, and dancing it out, and-

"I get like that, too, when I've had too many," Stewart says, breaking into Meredith's runaway train.

She blinks. "Too … many?"

Stewart sets the last dish on the drying rack next to the sink, hangs his wet dish towel, and leans against the countertop in one long, long line of flesh and bone that takes weight off his leg with the busted knee. Water spots cover his blue and orange Knicks t-shirt like confetti. "Thoughts," he says.

She snorts. "Stewart, you said you prefer blunt, right?"

"Yep," he replies without hesitation. "Lay it on me."

Silence stretches. She doesn't want to mess this up for Derek. She really freaking doesn't. Or her. She doesn't want to mess this up for **her**. She doesn't want Stewart and Sarah to decide Derek and Meredith are horrible friends, after all, and leave.

Too many people leave her.

"One facet of bluntness you seem to be missing is that it's kind of a quick thing," Stewart says. "Like, you know, where you just say it. Pow! Sarah's very good at it whenever I leave my dirty socks on the floor in the bathroom. I'm sure she could give you pointers if you need some."

Meredith can't help it. She laughs. Just a little. Which, she thinks, is exactly what Stewart intended. To disarm her nerves. He must be used to prying sentences out of nervous fans.

"I'm really, really sorry in advance if this makes you uncomfortable," she says. "I'll never bring it up again **ever** if it's a no-no subject. It's just, I've never had a famous friend before, and I don't know what the rules are, and I don't want to mess this up, because-"

"Meredith?"

"What?"

"Breathe."

She gulps some air. "Sorry. Sorry, I .…"

"It's okay. Go ahead," Stewart says. He folds his arms like he's bracing for something. "Vent your babble."

"Well, now, I'm out of babble," she replies. "You stopped me."

He raises his eyebrows. "You can't babble on demand?"

"No, I'm more of an accidental please-shut-me-up babbler."

He nods. "Noted. So, what's on the mind of Meredith?"

"I'm sorry if this makes you uncomfortable," she says.

His lip twitches like he wants to laugh. "You said that already."

"I know; it's just … I just!"

"This is a cone of candor," he says in a soothing voice. "Say what you want to say."

She frowns. "A cone of candor?"

"Like the cone of silence."

"The cone of silence?" she says.

He sighs. "You know. _Get Smart_?"

She blinks. "… No?"

"Clearly, my recuperation has driven me to watch too many old reruns," he says with a snort. He straightens and hobbles past her to the fridge, the door of which is covered top to bottom with drawings and photos and magnets. He pulls out a foil-covered … something that if Meredith were kitchen-smart, she might be able to identify as more than a maybe-pie. For, now, though .… Pie. Maybe. "Say, speaking of reruns, what did Derek do for months in the hospital, anyway? I mean, he's not a huge fan of sound. He watches games on mute."

"It's not the sound he hates," Meredith says, taking a moment to peer at the photos on the fridge.

A couple of photos are of Sarah and Stewart making romantic goo-goo eyes at each other, but most are of the kids doing kid things. Her favorite is a silly one. A younger Lindsey dangles upside down from monkey bars with chipping orange paint. She hangs with her knees hooked over the bar as she puts her fingers in her mouth and sticks her tongue out at the camera. Meredith can imagine Lindsey saying something like, _Cheese!_ while Stewart takes the photo. A simple, pedestrian moment at the playground. A father with his kids.

For a moment, that thought makes her heart ache. Which is stupid. She wipes at her eyes with her hands. Stewart might not have even taken that photo. Still … her gaze drifts farther down to Annie at a ballet recital. Tons of tiny tutus fill the photo like taffeta flowers. A lump fills her throat.

"Meredith?" Stewart says, interjecting softly as he peers over her shoulder.

She shakes her head and clears her throat. "I mean, some sounds, yes, Derek hates," she says as she turns away from the fridge, "but for the most part, it's the words. He has to assemble what he hears kind of like he's solving a puzzle. Interpreting is work for him. His language center just … isn't wired quite right anymore."

"So, what did he do for fun while he was healing?"

"A lot of his recreation was simple games, drawing, going for walks, things like that, but almost all of it had an ulterior motive of teaching him something or helping him practice something he learned earlier. A little more than a year ago, he didn't even know how to move, let alone talk. He's had to learn **everything** again."

Stewart swallows. "That definitely … puts things in perspective."

"Perspective?"

He shrugs. A glint of the dark-and-twisty she thought she saw when she met him lingers in his raven-brown eyes. "I was a grouchy, nasty jerk for months, and all I screwed up was my knee."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Meredith says. "It's difficult. Losing something that you feel defines you." _I wish I_ _'m_ _… same_ , she can hear Derek saying – almost weeping – in the back of her head.

"The trick is changing your definition, I guess," Stewart replies.

She sighs. "Easier said than done, I think."

"You said it, sister," Stewart says, giving her a quirky grin. "I'm working hard on Stewart Manning, Has-been Jobless Dad, but it's not quite as spiffy-sounding as Stewart Manning, Superstar."

She snorts.

"So, what are you afraid to ask me that you think will make me ditch you?" he says. He hobbles back to the counter where he's left the maybe-pie. "And, for the record, it'd take a lot to make me ditch. I don't ditch friends." He sighs as he pulls a shiny serving knife from the drawer. "Friends do tend to ditch **me** , though."

She meets his eyes and finds a kindred spirit looking back at her.

"It was my fault," he says. "What with the grouchy, nasty jerk for months part."

"You were going through a lot," she says. "That's not the time to dump a friend. That's the time to **be** a friend."

"Yeah, well," he says. "They weren't." He clears his throat. The foil crinkles as he pulls it away, revealing that the maybe-pie is a definite-pie. She's not sure what kind, though. Something with a crusted top rather than an open one. "But let's talk about you. Tell me what's up."

She bites her lip. Do it, she thinks. Do it. Deal with the ramifications later. She takes a deep breath. "Well, first of all, what am I allowed to tell my friends about you?" she says.

He laughs, and his eyes twinkle as he shakes his head at her like she's the most precious thing in the world. "Meredith, I'm not Bruce Wayne," he says. "I don't have a secret identity to protect. Though, there's an idea to rectify my joblessness. I mean, who wouldn't want to be Batman?"

"Me."

"Hmm." He thinks for a moment, stroking his long, pointy chin with his long, pointy thumb and index finger. His wedding ring – a simple gold band with no adornments – glints in the light. "Wonder Woman?"

"That might be fun," Meredith admits.

"She has a lasso and go-go boots," he says. "What's not to love?"

"I do appreciate a good dose of girl power," she says. She sighs. "The world needs more of that."

"I agree, my little Amazon," he says. He gives her a wink. "And you can tell your friends anything allowable under the Constitution. If you incite them to riot on my behalf, I might be cross, though."

She snorts. "I'll try not to do that."

"Good," he says. "Is that all you were worried about?"

A flare of laughter carries from the dining room, even through the closed kitchen door, and Stewart's gaze twitches in that direction. He picks up the pie and serving knife from the countertop and takes a hobbling step. She steps aside to make room for him.

"It's just that," she says, "one of my best friends is a basketball fan, and-"

Stewart stops halfway to the kitchen door, face flooding with understanding, and he leans on the counter again, getting weight off his leg. "Does she want an autograph or a picture or something?" he says.

"He," Meredith corrects him. "His name is Alex. And, no, I don't think he wants an autograph or a picture. But I was thinking, when you drag me to the basketball game next week-"

"Drag?" Stewart says. "Drag!?" He clutches his chest with his free hand. The serving knife clinks against the rim of the glass pie dish. "Woman, you break my heart."

"Sorry," she says. She frowns. "Um. Take? When you take me?"

He narrows his eyes at her. "I suspect if I stole your lasso, I'd discover you're lying, little Amazon."

She snorts. "I'm just not a sports fan. Okay? I-"

"Relax. I'm teasing you." He gives her an admiring smile. "Pardon the pun, but I'm thrilled you're being such a good sport and going anyway."

Another burble of laughter floats in from the dining room. The sound of humor has a tenor, male cadence, and Meredith finds herself smiling like they're playing a game of call and response. She hasn't heard Derek laugh so freely outside of his private bubble with her in … a long time.

"Would you mind if Alex and his girlfriend came along to the game?" Meredith says, still smiling. "I thought maybe we could make it a triple date. Maybe. If that's okay with you. He'd love to meet you."

"I think I can swing six tickets," Stewart says. He winks, and he gives her the worst _Godfather_ accent she's ever heard when he says, "I know a guy who knows a guy, ya' know?"

"Thanks. Thank you," Meredith says, breath flooding out of her as she sighs in relief. "He'll be thrilled, really. I promise he won't be gushy or embarrassing. And I'll just … go back to the table … now. Yeah." She turns to leave.

"I have one condition, you know," Stewart says, calling after her. "It's a super important one."

She swallows. "Okay, what?" she says. Stewart lets the silence stretch for a moment, and this leaves her antsy and imagining he's one of those crazy celebrities who refuses to be photographed next to the color green, or must be referred to by the peons as His Royal Highness, or something, which … seems so anti-Stewart, but- "Oh, god, what?"

He laughs. "If I like him, I get to count him." He shakes his long, spindly index finger at her in a tsk tsk gesture. "No giving free friends to Sarah. She didn't do the hard work of blowing out her knee and meeting you by accident."

She snorts. "Seriously?"

"What," he says, "you don't think it's fair for me to get credit for the domino friends?"

"If we're going to be picky, Sarah gave up her seat for Derek," Meredith counters. "She started it."

"Pfft!" he says, and some of his wispy hair goes flying. "Details!"

"Important details!"

"I will win," he says. He gives her a predatory smile. "Winning is one of my favorite hobbies."

"When is this competition over, anyway?"

He frowns. "You know, I have no idea? We never planned ahead that far."

Meredith snorts.

"Check back when we're ninety," Stewart says. "I'll let you know." And then he carries the pie into the dining room. Meredith trails behind him.

* * *

Meredith slides her chair to the table where Alex and Jo are sitting. Well, eye-screwing is a more accurate term than sitting. Neither Jo nor Alex likes PDA, but that doesn't stop them from projecting their affection like their eyeballs are porny movie screens. Meredith knows she'd be a hypocrite for saying anything about inappropriate eye-screwing, so she picks up her grilled cheese sandwich from her tray and takes a massive bite. Her stomach rumbled all through the open cholecystectomy she just finished. Grease, sharp cheddar cheese, and toast turn to mush in her mouth, and she sighs a happy sigh. She swallows and glances at them. Nope. Still eye-screwing. She takes another bite while she waits for them to wrap it up.

"What?" Alex says with a sigh. "What did Derek do, now?"

Meredith frowns. "Derek didn't do anything."

"You're coming to talk to me, and it's not about Derek?" Alex says.

"Um, no?" Meredith says.

"Halle-freaking-lujah," grumbles Jo.

"Do I really talk about Derek **that** much?" Meredith says.

Both Jo and Alex say, "Yes," at the same time.

Meredith must be making a face of some kind, because Jo gives her a sympathetic smile and says, "We know you've been going through a lot of horrible stuff. Really, we do, and we're sorry it's so hard for you. But … yes, Meredith. You talk about him **a lot**."

Meredith sighs. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it's just .…" She looks at her grilled cheese instead of at them. "I didn't have anybody else." In the space of a year, with Cristina leaving, and then Derek getting hurt, she had the struts of her primary support structure blown to smithereens.

"We know," Jo says. She sighs. "Sorry. It's okay."

But it's not okay. And Meredith is already making an internal note to try and bug them less. These last few weeks, she's felt like she's coming out of a fog. A desperate, horrible fog she didn't even know she was stuck in. She's missed having a person, but she's found one. And she's missed having a Derek around who feels more like her lover and her best friend and less like her charge, but he's coming around to that again with slow, wobbly steps. He's not there, yet, but he's hobbled close enough that she can see the finish line dangling in front of him.

"So, what's up, if it's not about Derek?" Alex prods her.

Meredith grins. "I came to tell you to free up your schedules next Friday night."

"What?" Jo says. "Why?"

"Because, aside from my apparently inappropriate amounts of venting, I'm an awesome friend," Meredith says, "and your boyfriend is going to a basketball game with me. I figured you'd want to go, too."

Alex's jaw drops. "Dude. Seriously?"

Jo frowns. "Basketball?"

"Yes, basketball," Meredith says to Jo. She turns to Alex. "And, yes, seriously. Just, please, please, **please** , don't go all gushy and embarrassing when you meet him, because I promised him you wouldn't. Not that I think you would, you know, but just in case, I feel it's my duty to tell you. Please, don't."

"Meet who?" Jo says.

Alex stares for a long moment. Meredith can't quite read the look on his face, but she thinks it might be a stoic precursor to him excusing himself to go shout and jump in the hallway in private. "Never. Bitching. Again," he says.

"Bitching about **what**?" Jo says. "I'm so lost."

"The venting," Alex says.

Meredith grins. "I'm not entirely sure, because we haven't talked about it other than doing the circumspect subject-dancing thing, but I think I've made friends with Alex's idol, and, now, I've arranged for them to meet. That's what."

"Meredith, you don't understand," Alex says. "The playoffs last year, he-"

Meredith cuts him off with a glare. "Don't. Tell. Me."

"You're not going to be able to live in ignorance forever," Alex says.

Meredith shrugs. "I've managed so far. I didn't even know who he was when I met him."

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Yes," Meredith says. She takes another bite of her grilled cheese. "Honestly, I think that's why he liked me enough to ask us to dinner. Well, and Derek."

Alex looks at her like she's informed him she loves pink and is running off to join the staff at Mary Kay or something, but he doesn't comment. Jo sighs and says, "Could somebody **please** explain what's going on?"

* * *

Derek doesn't keep his back turned on Thursday night. He gives her a view of his body in profile, and she can see everything. **Everything**. His ears and face turn red, and he still won't look at her, but she feels like he's hovering there, not clothed, a little longer than is necessary to change into fresh boxers. He's letting her look. She's sure of it.

* * *

Not everything between Derek and the kids is perfect. Meredith thinks, maybe, the biggest of the remaining problems is because she let the relationship between Derek and the kids percolate too long in the play-buddies stage without doing much to correct it. Beyond pause and asking for quiet when he needs it, the kids have figured out Derek's not assertive about his own needs or desires. Not even a little.

Zola's coloring on the sofa next to Derek on Saturday evening. Meredith's not quick enough to stop Zola from leaning over with an orange marker and drawing a dark, slashing line on Derek's arm. Derek glares at this development, but instead of telling Zola not to do that again, or maybe taking the marker away, Derek moves, instead.

Zola giggles like she's discovered the newest, funnest game ever. Color Daddy. She takes all of three minutes to transfer her paper and her markers to the dining room table to sit next to him. Derek looks up from his magazine, sizing Zola up, but he says nothing, and he goes back to looking at the pictures.

Meredith watches the situation over the top of her book. Zola uncaps a blue marker, and she leans toward Derek instead of her paper for round two of Color Daddy.

"Zola, don't you dare, or I'll take those away," Meredith snaps, and Zola hunkers in her seat.

"Sorry, Mommy," Zola says in a too-sweet voice. She goes back to coloring on the paper.

Bailey toddles to the chair where Meredith sits, carrying a well-worn copy of _Goodnight Moon_ , and he says, "Can read to me, Mommy?"

She smiles, sets her own book down, and pulls him into her lap with a grunt of effort. "You know this probably hasn't changed since the last time I read it to you."

Bailey seems undeterred, and she flips to the first page, only to hear another shrill giggle from Zola. Meredith's head snaps up, and, now, Derek's got a blue squiggle on his thigh below the hemline of his shorts. He sniffs with irritation, but he doesn't say no, doesn't scold. He picks up his magazine and heads into their bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Meredith kisses Bailey on the forehead and says, "Bailey, I'll read this to you in a minute, okay? I need to talk to Daddy real quick."

"Okay," Bailey says, and she leaves him sitting in the chair with the book dwarfing his lap.

Before she goes to find Derek, Meredith confiscates Zola's markers. "These are not for coloring people; they're for coloring paper," Meredith says.

"But, Mommy, I wanna color!" Zola insists.

Meredith shrugs. "You can have your markers back tomorrow. Find something else to amuse yourself with until then."

"That's not fair!" Zola whines.

Meredith gives her daughter a dispassionate gaze. "I told you I'd take your markers away if you drew on Daddy again, and you drew on Daddy again, so I'm taking them. That seems pretty fair to me."

Zola stomps off to her room in a flourish of tears and tantrum, which Meredith refuses to engage. Instead, she heads to her and Derek's bedroom. She finds him curled in the big reading chair by the window, the soft glow of the lamp lighting his handsome features.

He smiles when he sees her.

Meredith puts the markers in her nightstand drawer, and then sits on the edge of the bed, facing him. "Derek," she says, "if Zola's doing something you don't like, you're allowed to tell her to stop."

"It's easier to leave," he says.

"But you're her dad," Meredith says. "You're the boss. You **should** be the boss."

"Why?" he says.

"Because you're a grownup, and she needs to learn to respect you."

Derek licks his lips, but he doesn't respond to that.

"She's not your friend," Meredith adds. "She's your daughter, and if you don't nip this in the bud-"

"I …," Derek says, interrupting her. He thinks for a moment, and she waits. "What is nip … b-bud?"

"Nip in the bud is an expression," she says. "It means to stop something right away."

He stares at her. "I should … stop Zola."

" **Yes** ," Meredith says. "She has to learn that Daddy is the boss."

"I'm … boss?"

Meredith nods. "With the kids, yes, you are. You're the boss. And she needs to know that."

"Okay," Derek says. "I try. I try. I … will. I will try."

She smiles at him, and he smiles back. "That's all I want," she says. "For you to try."

"Okay," he repeats.

There's a lot of room in the chair he's using, and she shifts from the bed to the small space between the arm of the chair and his hip. The leather squeaks as he shifts to make room for her, and she sighs with pleasure when he wraps his arm over her shoulder. She strokes his chest through his shirt.

"Whatcha looking at?" she says.

He shows her the National Geographic he's picked up. He loves flipping through these and looking at all the pictures, so much that she ordered several hundred back issues for him from some collector on eBay before Derek was released from rehab, so they'd be waiting for him when he got home. She's subscribed him to both the adult and kid versions, too, so he keeps getting new ones. This issue displays a lot of pictures taken in Egypt.

"Have I go here?" he says.

"Umm," Meredith says, thinking. "You know, I think you said you went to a medical conference in Cairo before you met me, but I'm not sure."

"Cairo?"

"That's a city in Egypt. These pyramids are in Egypt."

"Oh," he says. "Egypt is a place."

She nods. "A country in Africa, yes."

He traces one of the triangular structures and says, "Pyramids," in a soft, reverent tone that says he's trying hard to commit this word to memory. "I think I … have remember of … this."

"Really?" she says.

"Yes," he says. "There was … pizza."

"At the Pyramids?" she says.

"Yes," he says.

"Pizza at the Pyramids," she repeats, and he nods.

She frowns. Derek was not a pizza eater before the accident, and this is sounding more and more like he might be mixing up a dream with a memory again. Now that she knows this is a thing, and she knows to look for it, she's noticed Derek doing it every now and then. She takes care not draw attention to the fact that he's talking nonsense. She lets herself enjoy the screwy stories he comes up with, instead. Her personal favorite fake memory so far is his recollection of riding a horse in the hospital. That one threw her for a loop. If the soccer coach thing hadn't sent her to Dr. Wyckoff in a panic, the horse thing would have.

"What kind did you get?" she asks, snuggling closer.

He looks down at her. "Pizza?"

"Yeah, what kind?" she says.

"I didn't ate it," he says. "I saw it."

His eyes fixate on something behind her, and she shifts her gaze in that direction. Bailey's standing in the open doorway with his _Goodnight Moon_ book.

"Mommy, can read, now?" he asks.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she says. "I forgot." She looks at Derek. "Want to hear _Goodnight Moon_ for the seventy-fifth time, or should I go somewhere else?"

Derek smiles. "Stay," he says. "I think I only heared it seventy-three times."

Meredith snorts at his joke, and she gestures Bailey forward. "C'mere."

Bailey climbs into the giant chair with them, and she opens the book across their laps. Bailey's had this story read to him so many times that he knows it by heart. "Why don't you tell the story to us this time, instead of me reading it to you?" Meredith suggests.

"Okay," Bailey says. He grins up at them with baby teeth. He points at the first picture and says, "Is a big, green room!"

* * *

Before her Saturday night striptease, out of sheer curiosity, she Googles, "pizza pyramids Egypt," on her phone. She's gobsmacked to discover there's a Pizza Hut in Giza, only a few hundred feet from the Pyramids. Maybe, Derek didn't dream that memory up, after all. Huh. She laughs, and she returns to her book while she waits for Derek.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Notes:**

Early present today :) Finally, we get to see what Derek was trying to say!

* * *

 **Week nineteen.**

Tuesday night, he changes head on, facing her, and she watches, unabashed, but she doesn't say anything, yet. His abs and pectorals are as gorgeous as his back, butt, and legs. She lets her gaze wander lower, following his happy trail to the terminus. She can remember so many nights, doing that. Licking her way from his belly button, down his length to the tip in a slow, sensual exploration. She looks, and she looks, and she looks, and she realizes he's just standing there, naked. He's not changing. Not making any move to cover up the view.

She blinks, and she meets his eyes. His expression is an amalgamation of different things, and it's hard for her to read. Embarrassment, yes, which is something she hopes he'll get over when he sees she's so far from laughing at him that laughter is in another galaxy. But she also sees a little pride, like he's happy she likes the view so much. And even … desire. Just a little. Like he wants a view of his own.

She swallows. She's been pointedly silent during these exercises of his, but she takes a chance. A leap. She smiles, and she says, "Do you want to see me, too?"

He's quiet for a moment, and he breaks eye contact. She worries again that she's pushed too hard. But then he says, "Yes."

She nods, and she climbs out of bed. Undressing and making it look sexy is kind of an art, and she hasn't practiced in a while. She hasn't given Derek a striptease in … years. More than two, but less than three. She doesn't give him a striptease, now, because he might balk at a full-blown show, but she tries to make slipping out of her clothes a little less matter-of-fact than yanking everything off one by one. Stepping out of panties is the hardest part to make look like anything other than the utilitarian act of stepping out of panties, but she works it as best she can.

"Do you remember this?" she says as he takes in the full-body view. "Me naked?" He swallows, and his breathing is less than relaxed. Blush mottles his skin, cheeks, neck, chest, and she's pretty sure she's not looking at desire right now. Worried, she adds, "Are you okay?"

He doesn't speak for a moment, but he doesn't look like he's confused. Just … not speaking. "I remember … some." And then he looks away from her to stare at nothing, and she can tell they've gotten to a point where he's getting uncomfortable. "I .…"

"It's okay," she says, and she puts her clothes back on with as much haste as she can without tripping all over herself. By the time she looks up at him, he's back in his boxer-briefs, but he hasn't fled, and he hasn't donned a t-shirt, either. He doesn't seem agitated. He's red as a stoplight, yes. But nothing tells her this is an irreparable overstep. "It's okay," she says. "We're doing this at your pace, however fast or slow you want to go. I don't want to do anything you don't want to do."

He doesn't look at her, but he moves to the bed and sinks into the mattress on his side. She listens. He sounds … mostly relaxed, now. It's not until after she flips the lights out, and she closes her eyes that she hears him say, "Thank you for … patient." A frustrated noise in his throat fills the void, and then he corrects himself. "Being … patient." He settles against her, spooning.

"You'd do it for me," she says, remembering how gentle and hesitant he was after her liver transplant surgery. "If I needed it."

"I wish … I didn't needed it."

She swallows. "But it's okay that you do."

He doesn't respond to that. From the way his breathing evens out against her neck in a matter of moments, he's slid into slumber. And that's okay. That's … more than okay. Because it means he wasn't too freaked out. She smiles, and she lets herself fall asleep to the memory of his body.

He really does have a beautiful one.

* * *

"Ask me how my day went," Meredith says on Wednesday as she navigates her Jeep through a sea of traffic. Brake lights pepper the endless gray with blinking, brilliant red.

After picking up Derek from rehab, she's taking them both to Sea-Tac to pick up his mother, who's been wanting to visit for a while, now that Derek's settled. The day is gloomy and drizzly and wet enough that she has to run her windshield wipers, but she can't call what's happening right now real rain. She sighs as the bumper-to-bumper traffic comes to a halt, the blinking red becomes a constant red glow, and she has to park. Nobody should have to park on a highway. This is ridiculous. Seattle traffic is **ridiculous**.

"How did your day went?" Derek says, and then he makes an irritated noise deep in his throat. "Went? Went?"

"Go," she says. "How did your day go?"

"How did your day … went?" Derek says again, and he pauses to grind his teeth.

His speech therapist, Marie, wants Derek to work on this particular verbal hiccup for short spurts every day for a couple weeks, starting today. Ten or fifteen minutes a pop, a couple of times a day. Marie hopes frequent, shorter practice sessions will be more helpful in correcting the stalwart issues Derek has than the long sessions he has with Marie on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. But all Meredith sees is Derek getting more and more frustrated, and she thinks, maybe, this was not one of Marie's better ideas.

At this point, the problem isn't that Derek doesn't know the right grammar internally in his own head. He does. Meredith can ask him a question both ways, the correct way, and the way he tends to say it, and he can pick out which one is right when he hears it, if he's focusing hard. The problem is that he has bad wiring with a predilection for saying things the wrong way, and it's hard if not impossible for him to go against the grain. Speech therapy can help, but one eventually arrives at a point where the fixables are fixed, and what's left is never going to change .…

"How did your day went?" Derek tries again, and he makes another frustrated noise. He stops to think, and think, and think. "Go," he says. "Go." But then he tries to put the sentence back together and he gets, "How. Did. Your. Day. Went?"

Meredith twists her fingers against the steering wheel. Frankly, she thinks Derek has the right idea. Why shouldn't the tenses agree? Really, does it make sense to flip from past tense to present tense? No, it does not. English is dumb.

"How did your day go?" she says for him again. Traffic starts moving once more, and she inches forward at a glacial pace. At this rate, his mother probably could have walked home from the airport and beaten them there.

"How did," he says. He pauses. He thinks. "Your day." He swallows, and he thinks. She waits for the word went to pop loose as he battles with another syllable deep in his throat, but he manages to spit out, "Go?" despite immense opposition.

"Hey!" Meredith says, and she gives him a huge grin. "You got it! That was great!"

He doesn't seem to share her pleasure. He glares out the window like he's fantasizing about stabbing something, and he clutches at his jeans with a white-knuckled grip. She thinks they should stop on a high note, before his skyrocketing blood pressure makes him blow a gasket, but he says, "Another?"

She sighs. "Don't you want to take a break, now?"

"No," he says. "Please, another."

She shakes her head, but she says, "Ask me where I got my diploma."

"Where did … you … got your .…" His voice trails away, and he growls in frustration. His head thunks against the window. He closes his eyes. He sighs. "Where did you got." He swallows. "Get. Get. Get," he repeats, like he's trying to seed the word in ground where it doesn't want to grow. "Where did you … … get your diploma?" he manages.

"You got that one faster," Meredith says. Hope flutters, hearing him succeed with less effort that time. The not-rain-drizzle-stuff picks up into legitimate precipitation, and she kicks the windshield wipers one gear higher. "Ask me why I did the crossword puzzle."

"Why did you did," Derek says. "Why." Another pause to think. "Why did you … do? Why did you do? Why did you do the crossword puzzle?"

And faster, still. "I think you're getting better, Derek," Meredith says. Maybe, Marie wasn't altogether wrong about this. "Really, I think you are. You got that one fast."

"It … so hard," he says, eyes dark and wet. "It's **so** hard." He swallows. "I think **so** hard to get it."

"English is crappy," she says. She reaches across the parking brake to squeeze his knee. "I never realized how crappy until I've had to watch you relearn it."

"Why can't I …?" he says, and his voice trails away. He sighs. "I feel … stupid."

"Hey," Meredith says. She rubs his thigh. "Hey, it's not your fault. And you're not stupid. You are **not** stupid, Derek. You have a disability, yes, but you're not stupid." Rain splatters on the roof of the car. She swallows. She's never asked him before, and curiosity bowls her over like a tsunami. At first, she thinks, she shouldn't ask. But … she wants to know, and they're married, and if they can't be honest … what's the freaking point, then? "What's it like, anyway?"

"What is what … like?" he says.

"When you're trying to do that," she says. "Trying to say something that's not coming out right. Do you think you're saying the right thing until you hear yourself saying it? Or .…" She sighs as she loses her nerve. "Never mind. You probably don't want to talk about that."

"I …," he says. He stops, and his eyes close. "It's like .…" He thinks. "I see you. I know you are … you're Meredith." He pauses to gather himself. "All I want is say Meredith." Another pause to think. "I say Meredith. I **know** I say." Another pause. "But … but … but when word make sound, it say wrong." Another pause. He shakes his head. "It … very f-frustrate."

"I can imagine," she says, the words quiet. She swallows. "What about when you can't say something?"

He thinks. "Like …." Another pause. More thinking. "I forget how … send …." More thinking. He raises his palm to his throat. "T-this. This doesn't …." He shakes his head. "This doesn't listen to me. I … t-think and nothing happen. I think, and I think, but … it's like neck …." He grunts with frustration and shakes his head. "Th-Throat. Throat not mine." He swallows, and he looks at his lap. "I sound stupid," he says. "I know."

"You don't sound stupid," she says. She's impressed, actually. He sticks to short sentences to keep coherency. This is probably the longest collection of thoughts she's ever heard him put together since the accident, and he didn't do half bad. Maybe, he can't manage the best diction, but she gets what he means without having to struggle. She gets him. "You don't, Derek."

"I hate," he says. "I h-hate talk. It make people think … stupid."

"Well, **they're** the stupid ones," she says. "Not you."

He looks out the window with wet eyes. "I hate talk **so** much."

A lump forms in her throat. "I know you do," she says. "I'm glad you do it with me, though." She gives him a smile. "I **love** to talk with you. It's one of the many reasons I'm glad you didn't die."

She can feel him watching her, though she doesn't take her eyes from the road. Traffic inches forward. "You didn't … like it before," he says.

"Hey, you got that one first try," she says, smiling at him. And then she realizes what the hell he just said. "Wait, you remember what? I didn't what?"

He smiles. "I tell you. Told you. I have remember of talk to you."

"I know you did," she says. "But we've talked a lot over the years."

"You call me chatty," he says. "You tell me to shut up."

She snorts. She can hear herself in her head. _God, Derek; you're so freaking chatty. All the time. Chatty. Can you please, please, please, shut_ _the hell_ _up? Just this once? Please?_ _I haven't even had my coffee, yet._

He laughed at her. Laughed!

 _What?_ she snapped.

 _All I said was, 'Do you want some pancakes?'_

She blinked. _Oh._ She gave him an apologetic grin. _Yes, please?_

 _Well, now, I don't know if I want to make you any, seeing as how I'm not appreciated,_ he snarked. _Me and my chatty pancakes will go have breakfast by ourselves._

She rolled her eyes. _What the hell does that even mean?_

"I remember that, too," she says. "It was right after Cristina got impaled."

Derek blinks. "I don't remember this part."

"You weren't really around for that," she says. "I mean you were, but not in Cristina's vicinity."

"Oh," he says.

He has so few memories left in his head; she loves whenever they find a new one. Whenever she makes a connection with him. She loves New Derek, loves him a little bit more every day she finds out something she didn't know about him before, but that doesn't stop her from missing Old Derek, sometimes. She loves to find these small pieces of him, preserved forever.

"Thank you," she says.

His gaze creases with confusion. "Why?"

She smiles at him. "I **really** like to talk to you. Thank you for bearing it for me."

He's silent for a long moment. "Meredith, I don't hate talk to **you**."

"Oh," she says. She wipes her eyes with her free hand. "Really?"

Something warm touches her leg, and she looks down to see his hand resting on her thigh. "I frustrate sometime, but good is … more," he says. She smiles so wide her face hurts, and she puts her hand over his. They ride together in comfortable silence for a while. The exit numbers increase one by one by glacial one. She glances at her watch. His mom is due to land … now. Crap.

"Mere?" Derek says. "Where did you got? Got." He pauses to regather himself. "Get. Where did you … get your diploma?"

She blinks, confused, for a moment, at where this question came from. But then she remembers her prompts for him a little earlier. How did your day go? Where did you get your diploma? Why did you do the crossword puzzle? Nonsense questions that she thought up on the fly, meant only to force him to use the word "did" in conjunction with another verb, so he could practice.

"Which diploma?" she says.

"The doctor one."

"I went to Dartmouth," she says. "It's a college in New Hampshire."

"Did you like it?" he says.

She shrugs. "It was a college. I liked it, I guess. I have good memories and bad."

"Why did you went there?"

She worries at the steering wheel with her fingers. "Well, I took a long break between undergrad and medical school. Years. That doesn't look that great when you apply to schools, but my mother was a Dartmouth alum, and colleges **love** sucking up to prestigious alumni. I took advantage. I know I took advantage. But … I had to start somewhere." She sighs. "Crap, I'm sorry," she says, before he can ask for a pause. "That was too much, wasn't it?"

But he doesn't say yes. "You have … long break," he says. "Your mother goes Dartmouth." He gives her an apologetic look. "I miss rest. What is undergrad?"

"Undergrad is what we call the first college you go to after high school," she says. "After that, you go to graduate school, or medical school, or whatever."

"Okay," he says. "Where did I …?" He pauses, and he thinks, and manages to spit out, "Get," like it tastes awful. He pauses again, recollecting himself. "My doctor diploma?"

"Columbia University," she says.

"I teared it up."

"You did," she says. "Do you want to get a replacement? I can look into that."

"What will I do with it?"

She frowns. "I don't know."

"I have no remember," he says. Not a complaint. An observation. "It's not … sentimental. I … don't think I can … neurosurgeon."

She freezes, hearing him say that. They haven't ever talked about goals since the accident, realistic, pipe dream, or otherwise. They haven't discussed what he wants, or ifhe wants anything. For a long time, he wasn't in a headspace capable of aspirations. She hasn't let herself hope he'll be back at Seattle Grace someday, smirking at her in the hallways and kissing her in elevators.

"Derek, I get being realistic," she says. "I do. I'm big on realism." Some might call it pessimism. "The world sucks, crappy things happen, and I don't think you'll be a surgeon again, but .…" She has to stop for a moment. Stop and swallow and think. She's never said that out loud before. Never let herself think about it. That he won't be a surgeon again. A lump forms in her throat.

"I don't think you'll be a surgeon again," she forces herself to repeat.

He won't be a surgeon again. There's no way. Even if he did, by some miracle, get back all his mental faculties, there would still be the problem of his weak hand, which is so much better than it was, but by no means is it ever going to be able to do precision work with a scalpel again. Not to mention the amount of education and skill he'd have to replace to get back to the starting line with all the incoming interns.

But .… He's still healing in leaps and bounds. She notices things getting better almost every day. Like today, he's carrying a conversation better than he's ever carried one before. Last year, when something as simple as asking Derek to pick up a green shape from a selection of different-colored shapes flummoxed him, if someone had told her she'd be able to talk with Derek in the car on the way to pick up his mother at the airport, Meredith would have laughed. Well, not laughed. Probably burst into tears. But that's the fact of the matter. He's still healing. Every day she can see it. And if he came this far in a year, who the hell knows where he'll be next year? Or the year after that? Or the year after that one?

"Do you **want** to be a doctor again?" she says, and she doesn't think this is an altogether crazy question. He'll never be a surgeon again. But there are plenty of career paths a doctor can take that are slower-paced and less stressful.

Derek's silent for a long time as he stares out the window at the passing gray scenery. "I don't know," he says.

Meredith bites her lip. "Is there something you **do** want to do?"

"Yes," he says without hesitation, which surprises her. Tells her he's been thinking about this question a lot longer than she has. Thinking about his aspirations.

"What?" she says.

He swallows. "I .… I .…" He closes his eyes, and he thinks, but he doesn't speak. A rough syllable sticks in his throat, and it's like … he has this traffic jam he can't clear out of his head.

This is like the third time in three weeks that this has happened. Maybe, all of it is related to the same stuck thing. She's not sure if it's stuck because he can't say it, or because he doesn't know how to say it, but whatever it is, it's not budging. Her burning curiosity flares like phosphorous exposed to air. Maybe, she can steer them toward clarity and help Derek say what's stuck, without him having to say it. Maybe, she can guess it for him, and all he'll have to say is yes.

"Can you name someone else who does what you want to do?" she says.

"Stewart," he says.

She frowns. "You want to play basketball?"

"No."

Her frown deepens. "Can you give me another example, then?"

"I don't know," he says. "I don't .…" His voice trails away into a grunt of frustration.

"But Stewart does it?"

"Yes," Derek says. "He does … with." He pauses, and his mouth works on forming a word. "For. He does for Sarah." More thinking. "M … m … m-moral support."

Meredith's fingers tighten on the steering wheel. "Husband?" she says. "Is that the word you're looking for? You want to be my husband?"

"Yes," Derek says. "Yes, I want this."

"Derek, you already **are** my husband," she says. "We're married. That's what the Post-it is for. Remember the Post-it you signed?"

"No, I meaned .…" He takes a deep breath. "You help me. You .…"

"You want to help me?" she says.

He smiles. "I like to help you, Mere."

"I know you do."

"I want …. I want .…" He licks his lips, and he thinks, and she hurts for him, watching how hard this is for him. Trying to dance even half close to the idea stuck in his head. "Melody."

"You want Melody?"

"No .… I .… Never mind," Derek says, almost a hiss. He clenches his teeth, slams his hand onto the dashboard, and growls. "I don't know word. I don't know word." He shakes his head. "I hate not know word!"

"It's okay," she insists. "It's okay. We'll figure it out." Because they're close. She can feel it. "Just take a breath."

She thinks. Stewart does it for Sarah. Not be a husband as in a duty named on a paper, but some conceptual aspect of being a husband. Moral support. Derek wants to help Meredith. He wants … something to do with Melody. Melody … cares for the kids. Husband, moral support, caring for the kids.

Meredith swallows. "Derek, are you trying to tell me you want to be independent?"

"Independent?"

"Able to do things by yourself," she says.

"No," he says. She slumps. Crap. But then he elaborates, "No, I like the kids, and I … y-you. I want you here. I don't want alone."

And, now, she thinks she might still be on the right track. She thinks his aphasia kicked in, and he fixated on the "by yourself" part of independent, and he didn't get the full meaning she was trying to convey. She keeps churning. He likes the kids. He likes her. Not alone. Husband, moral support, caring for the kids. Something to do with Melody, but when he listed who he liked having around, Melody wasn't in the list.

"You don't like Melody," she says.

He gives her a helpless look, like they're so close, but he has no idea how to whittle down the conversation to the fine point he wants it at. "Melody is nice," he says, and she wants to kick herself for giving him such a vague verbal assertion.

"You want to work toward being able to let Melody go?" Meredith clarifies.

He frowns at her. "Melody can't leave?"

"No, she can leave if she wants," Meredith says. How to reword? "I mean … you want to do what she does. So we don't need her anymore."

"Yes," he says like the crack of a whip, and she knows she's figured it out, now.

"You want to be able to take care of the kids," she says.

"Yes."

Husband. Moral support. Not alone. Stewart does it for Sarah. Derek likes to help Meredith.

"You want to be able to take care of me," she says in a soft voice.

"Yes," he says, the word thick with emotion. "Yes, I want this so much."

And the world stops. Her eyes water, and her throat closes, and she has to pull off to the shoulder, because she's a road hazard. A horn honks as she whips to the right. The Jeep rolls to a stop. She lifts up the parking brake. She sucks in a breath. Rain patters on the car in the silence, and she sits there, world stopped, yet spinning, for what feels like an eternity.

"I maked you sad," Derek says in a fretful tone. He pulls a worried hand through his hair. "I didn't meaned to make you sad. I'm sorry." He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. "Please, I'm sorry. I didn't meaned it." His eyes are wet, and he's crying, too.

"No," she says, taking a shivery breath and blowing it out. "I'm not sad."

 _I'm … okay with some take_ , he said a few weeks ago. _Other takes … I … I … hate._ Derek doesn't seem to care about being a surgeon anymore, at least, not beyond the stress he experienced when he felt like everybody was expecting him to be Old Derek, and he couldn't be. But he wants to be her husband. He wants to be Zola and Bailey's father. Stewart's a stay-at-home dad with a wonderful family, and Derek sees that, and he wants it. Derek wants things. Reachable things.

She wipes her face with the back of her hands, and she sniffs. She looks at him through a curtain of water, and all she sees are blurry shapes. She blinks. "I'm not sad; I'm happy," she says. She wipes her eyes again and blinks. The blur resolves a little, into Derek, who's staring at her like she's gone insane.

"Happy?" he says.

"Yes," she says. "Yes, I just .… A year ago, I never thought I'd be having this conversation with you. I never thought I'd be having **any** conversation with you."

"Oh," he says.

"You were awake, but .…" She blinks. "I never thought I'd have this again. I never thought .…" She trails away into silence.

He's not looking at her anymore. He's staring out the window, tears leaking, like she's taken a knife and gutted him. It's been a hard road for him, too.

"I think we can work toward what you want," she says. "I think you can do that."

Now, it's his turn to be gobsmacked, and he blinks at her like she's given him the world in a box. "You do?" he says.

"It might take a while, but .…"

"It is … realistic?" he says.

"Yeah, Derek. I think it is."

He blinks. "Really?"

"You help me already. You help the kids," she says. "Being independent will be a leap for you, but we're not looking at the Grand Canyon."

"The … what?"

She smiles. "The Grand Canyon would be a **really** big leap."

"My leap is small?" he says.

"I think maybe medium," she says. "A medium leap."

"I want this so much," he says, blinking. Tears pulse from his eyes. "I … please, I want this."

It's the first non-trivial thing he's ever asked her for since the accident. The first **big** thing.

"I want that for you, too," she says. "I do." She leans across the parking brake to kiss him. "We'll work on it, okay?" They already **have** been working on it, but she never thought it necessary to sit him down and explain it. She supposes, now, that she should have.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

Meredith wipes her eyes one last time and pulls back into traffic. She smiles. She can't **not** smile. Because Derek Shepherd's healing enough to want things.

* * *

As it turns out, Meredith shouldn't have worried about Derek's mother, because her connecting flight from San Francisco was delayed by weather in the Bay area, and Carolyn hasn't even landed yet by the time Meredith parks the car in the hourly lot. After the emotional discussion in the car, after rehab, after everything, Derek's tired, and he's not chatty, now, but he seems relaxed and happy in a way that's a balm to Meredith's soul. They've figured out the stuck thing, and the stuck thing is … wonderful.

A wonderful thing that makes her heart ache in all the right ways, because Derek wants things.

The airport is a new experience for Derek, which, other than the fact that it's his mother visiting, is one of the reasons Meredith went out of her way to include him on the pickup trip. He stops to look at everything. They grab a snack in the food court and sit on the benches by the wide windows overlooking one of the runways. He wraps his arm over her shoulder as he eats the soft pretzel clutched in his other hand.

The world beyond the windows is a misty, dreary gray, but one would never guess it from Derek's gaping expression. He watches a bright blue and orange Southwest plane the size of their house take off for parts unknown. And then he watches the next plane, a white one with blue wings from United, do the same. FedEx goes next. Then Air Japan. He doesn't pick up his jaw for a good five minutes.

"How does …?" He blinks. "How?"

Meredith shrugs. "I'd explain it, but **I** don't even get it," she says. "Something with Bernoulli and pressure and a thing. It's like voodoo science."

Derek blinks. "What … is … Bernoulli?"

She gives him a playful shove. "Damn it, Derek, I'm a doctor, not a physicist."

Now, he looks even more mystified, but he seems to understand she's joking with him, and he smiles at her. It's a soft, reverent, _I-have-no-idea-wha_ _t-_ _the-hell-you're-talking-about-but-I-love-you-anyway_ smile. She leans close to kiss him. He invites her in with no prodding. He tastes like salty pretzel. A soft, "Hmm," rumbles in his throat when their tongues touch.

"Next time you're in the mood to watch television with the sound on," she says against his skin, "remind me to show you _Star Trek_." Hell, maybe she could even make a _Star Wars_ convert out of him, now.

"Okay," he says.

She runs her fingers through his hair and kisses him again. "Seriously, I have no idea how any of it works," she says, pointing in the general direction of the runway. "I can't explain what Bernoulli is."

He smiles. "Magic?"

Meredith laughs. "I suppose you could call it that." She watches another plane take off. She nods. "Magic." She rests her head on his shoulder. Derek's a walking miracle. She can get behind the idea of magic, at this point. Magic is inexplicable science until it's explained, anyway.

* * *

They meet Carolyn at baggage claim. The smile on Carolyn's face when she rounds the corner and sees both Meredith and Derek waiting for her is nuclear to say the least. "Derek!" Carolyn says as she closes in. "Oh, sweetheart, you look so much better!"

Carolyn pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. Meredith doesn't begrudge Carolyn the oh-my-god of it all, considering when she last left, Derek could hardly walk with a walker. They've been chatting on the phone for months, and Carolyn's known in concept the progress Derek's made, but nothing quite prepares someone for the pow moment of seeing a formerly crippled loved one not so crippled anymore. He still uses his cane outside the house, but not with a death grip or anything, and his stride is almost limp free.

"Hello," Derek says, a soft rumble in his throat, and Carolyn pulls back to give him a smile.

"Hi!" she says. She cups his cheek and stares at him for a long moment, like she can't believe what she's seeing. Her eyes water and overflow in the moment. "Hi, sweetheart. Hi."

"Hey, Carolyn," Meredith adds, only to get pulled into a hug, too.

"Hello, Meredith," Carolyn says. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to ignore you."

"It's okay," Meredith says. She smiles. "I get it. I do."

"Thank you for picking me up," Carolyn says. "You didn't have to."

Meredith shakes her head. "Of course, we did. Amelia would have been here, too, but she got pulled into an emergency surgery."

Carolyn looks at Derek. Her mouth opens and closes in a weird echo of Derek's current having-a-mental-hiccup expression. "How was your day?" she says, short and clipped and to the point, like she's gotten used to speaking with him on the phone.

"Rehab go okay," he says with very little pause to interpret what's been asked. "Rehab fix grip, walk, talk." He swallows. "Meredith help with talk." A pause. He thinks. "W-w-we practice in car."

Carolyn blinks, eyes widening. Derek's … almost monosyllabic on the phone, and he takes forever to answer questions. To Meredith, he sounds tired right now, because he's stripping conjugations and articles and making a general butchery of it, though, at least, he's still understandable. On the worst end of the exhaustion spectrum, he talks gibberish. But, to Carolyn, this is like the Derek equivalent of a Meredith babble explosion, and it's a unicorn on the scale of pretty common to unique to imaginary.

"What are you trying to practice, specifically?" Carolyn says after she gets over her shock.

Derek opens his mouth and closes it. He looks at Meredith with a _help-me_ expression.

"He has trouble with compound verbs where the tense changes," Meredith says. "Did you want something becomes did you wanted something. Things like that."

"Yes, this," Derek says.

The buzzer on the baggage claim belt sounds, and Derek flinches. He looks in the general direction of the sound with a wince. "It loud," he says. His shoulders curl, and he claps his hands over his ears.

Meredith rubs his back. "It'll stop in a second."

He relaxes into a slump when the noise stops, and the baggage belt starts. Suitcases spill onto the belt one by one. He watches a frazzled-looking redheaded woman grab a massive flower-print suitcase. He thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks.

"We wait for .…" He stares at the belt, eyes darting this way and that as his mind churns. "We wait … for?" He swallows. "What is …?"

"Those are suitcases," Meredith says. "They hold clothes and things." She squeezes his shoulder. "Remember you had one when I brought you home from rehab?"

"Yes," he says. "Yes, I .…" He turns to his mother. "What suit … case look like?"

Carolyn gapes. "Um. It's … red. Red with black trim. And there's a neon green stripe of duct tape stuck on it."

"Trim?" he says.

"Edges," Meredith clarifies.

"Okay," Derek says, and he walks toward the belt to watch the suitcases coming out at a closer distance.

"Oh, my god," Carolyn says. "Oh, my god." She swallows, and she looks at Meredith, and her wet eyes spill over like overflowing sinks. Carolyn wipes the tears away.

Meredith grins. "He's a lot better."

"Oh, my **god** ," Carolyn says again, because she saw her brain-damaged son, who six months ago when she visited could barely describe the food on his dinner plate or fumble through a game of Connect Four well enough to not lose in less than sixty seconds, watch a thing he's never seen before, make conclusions based on what other people are doing, connect that conclusion with his own situation, and ask about how to achieve their desired goal. Slowly, yes, but he did it.

Both of them watch as Derek fixates on a black and red suitcase with a piece of green tape stuck on the back, and he pulls it off the belt. He eyeballs another person extending the handle of a roller board next to him, and he searches for that, too. He finds it, extends it, tips the bag on its wheels, and pulls it over to Meredith and Carolyn.

"This right?" he says.

Carolyn says, "Yes," in a bare croak. She takes the handle of her bag from him. But then she lets it go, and it falls flat to the ground with a smack. She pulls Derek into another crushing hug that makes him grunt. He looks bewildered, but he doesn't begrudge his mother her expression of affection. He hooks his cane over his forearm and mirrors the hug with a tight grip of his own. He splays a palm and rubs his mother along the spine.

"It … is okay," he says. "Why sad?"

Which only elicits another heavy, almost-sobbing, "Oh, my god. Oh, sweetheart."

Meredith steps back to sit on a nearby bench and give them some privacy. She can't help but smile, watching them. Carolyn's rediscovering miracles and magic, too, it seems.

* * *

Key Arena is open and airy and cool. Meredith thinks Alex was right about the WNBA struggling for traction, because a lot of the seats are empty. Not tons or anything. But enough for the fact that the arena's not sold out to be noticeable. Stewart got them seats right behind the Storm bench like he did with Derek last time. Some of the players turn around to talk to Stewart on occasion, almost like they're talking shop. Hell, the coach even said hello. Members of the press snap photos of them all – Derek, Meredith, Stewart, Sarah, Alex, Jo, all in a row – as they watch the game.

It's freaking surreal.

"Charge!" Stewart shouts. "Aw, ref, that was a charge! A **charge**! Not a block!" He sighs. "C'mon!"

Alex snorts and shakes his head. "They're smoking something. They must be."

"Isn't weed legal in this state, now?" Stewart says.

"Huh," Alex says. "Good point."

"What is weed?" Derek says.

Stewart makes a choking noise. "It's … um … better living through chemistry."

"Better .…" Derek blinks. "What?"

"It's a drug, Derek," Meredith says. "Like alcohol or your pain pills."

"Oh," he says.

She hopes he doesn't ask to try it. Not that she has anything against recreational drugs done responsibly for occasional recreation, emphasis on occasional now that she's older, but giving a hallucinogen to someone who already has cognitive issues seems like a recipe for an Exxon-Valdez style disaster. Even alcohol has gnarly effects on him when he has too much.

Stewart seems to have read her mind, though, because he claps Derek on the back and says, "Trust me, Derek. You don't want to mess with that."

"Okay," Derek says, and that seems to be that.

The whistle blows. Alex stands up, gaping. "That was a block! Not a charge!"

Meredith blinks, snorts at his gusto. Block, charge. They look identical to her. The same player fell over both times. "I don't understand what just happened," she says.

Stewart looks down at her from his towering standing position. His crutch creaks as he shifts his weight. He's been standing for a while, and Meredith thinks he might be aching or something. "A charge is when an offensive player slams into a defensive player," Stewart says, "and a block is when a defensive player impedes an offensive player's progress."

Meredith blinks. "Isn't that the same thing?"

"Nope," Stewart says.

"Seriously," Meredith says. "That sounds like the same freaking thing."

"It's kind of like a gunfight," Stewart says. "Depends on who shoots first."

"Not following," Meredith says.

"Say I plant my feet, and you decide to run at me anyway. That's a charge."

"Okay," Meredith says.

"Now, say you're running past me, I'm racing to catch up, I leap in front of you, and you knock into me. That's a block."

"Oh," Meredith says.

"Anyway, what we just saw here is a block, not a damned charge. The refs are drunk."

Sarah, who's sitting, leans behind Stewart, her shoulder touching the back of his thigh. She cups her hand over her mouth, and whispers, "I still don't get it, and I'm married to him."

"So, it's not just me?" Meredith says.

"Nope," Sarah says. "Not just you."

Meredith frowns. "Wait, you're not a basketball fan?"

"No," Sarah says. "Well, I've grown to appreciate it, but I'm never going to scream at the refs like he does." She jabs her thumb in Stewart's direction. "I just came tonight to keep you company in case you got bored."

"I'm not bored," Meredith says. Basketball is definitely not her thing. It's like watching ping pong with a bigger ball, which, to her, is only a step up from watching paint dry. But she likes to watch the people in the crowd. And she likes to watch **her** people, all happy and healthy and having fun. "I think I don't like basketball, but I'm not bored."

"Pfft," Stewart says. "Just keep watching. Maybe, it will click."

Sarah snorts. "That's what you say to me every time I come to one of these, babe."

"Well, it might!" Stewart insists.

Meredith laughs. "How did you two meet, anyway?"

"She caught my eye at a game," Stewart says. "Beautiful goddess right behind the bench, not paying any attention." He snorts. "I said hello, and she didn't even look up from doodling on the program. Her boyfriend nearly wet himself, though. I talked with him for a few minutes and signed his t-shirt."

"I was bored," Sarah confesses. "I only went because Marty wanted to go."

"Marty?" Meredith says.

"Her ex," Stewart says. "The one who wet himself." He looks at Sarah, and he winks. "I stole her. I told you I like to win."

Sarah laughs. "You didn't steal me. That was so, so over already." She looks back at Meredith. "Anyway, pure coincidence, but we ran into each other a week later at the grocery store – apparently we were practically neighbors already – and he says-"

"Hey!" Stewart says. "I remember you!"

"And I said, 'Who the hell are you?'"

"And the rest was history," Stewart finishes, eyes full of stars, and he leans down to give Sarah a kiss.

Alex watches the entire exchange like he's watching man's first walk on the moon or something, and Meredith grins. Just as she promised he would, he's not being gushy or embarrassing. In fact, he's been very keep-it-cool, but Meredith knows Alex, and Alex is starstruck. That's the only description for it. He's met his idol, and his idol's a pretty cool person, and, now, Alex is floating somewhere in Alex Heaven while all the harps play Metallica or whatever.

Jo shoots to her feet and shouts, "Travel! That was a travel!" She snorts. "Seriously, these refs **suck**!"

Alex grins ear to ear, and he leans to whisper something to her. _I'm gonna marry that girl,_ Meredith hears him say in her head. She wonders when that's going to happen. It must be a sure thing, by now, mustn't it? She's glad he's happy. Alex deserves to be happy.

Meredith's phone vibrates, and she pulls it from her pocket to glance at it. A text from Carolyn saying the kids are down for the night and to, please, have fun, and don't worry about coming home at a reasonable hour. Meredith snorts, and she puts her phone back in her pocket.

"What is this?" Derek says when the play stops.

Stewart frowns. "Backcourt violation, I think. I missed the call."

"What is a back … vio … violation?"

"That's when someone takes the ball to the wrong side of the court," Stewart says.

"How do …?" Derek stops, and he thinks. A syllable loiters in his throat. Stewart doesn't push him. "How do I see this?"

Stewart frowns. "I … am not sure how to explain that without confusing you more."

"Just look at the shirt colors," Alex interjects. "If a green shirt carries the ball over the court midpoint, only a white shirt can carry it back."

"That's a good way to put it," Stewart says, and Alex preens.

Derek takes a long, long time churning over that one, but he says, "If … white carry ball over … over … line. Over line." He stops for a minute to churn some more. "Only green can take back?"

"That's right," Stewart says with a smile. "You got it."

"Back violation is when this rule is breaked."

"Yep," Stewart says. He cups his hands over his mouth. "Jesus, **foul**!" he shouts. He shakes his head, watching the players dart back and forth. "So, Alex Karev."

Alex looks at Stewart with a wide-eyed _who-me?_ expression. "What?" he says.

"Tell me how you met my little Amazon."

Alex blinks. "Meredith?"

"Yes," Stewart says.

Alex thinks for a long moment, and his gaze goes distant. "You know, I can't remember," Alex says. He snorts. "I do remember her slamming me into the lockers, though. Derek stepped in before she charged again."

Derek stops watching the game to peer at them. "I did?"

"You threatened to let her beat me to a pulp with her tiny, ineffectual fists if I didn't leave," Alex says.

"Really?" Derek says, frowning.

Stewart's gaze narrows. "I can sense the Malex of it all evolved over time." He frowns. "Or should we call you Aledith? I like Aledith." He swirls his hand like he's trying to waft an odor. "It evokes a faint sense of inebriation. I'm a fan of ale."

Meredith grins. "Yes. We, um, Alex and I, I mean, started kinda … love-to-hate."

Alex shrugs. "I was a jackass. You can say it."

Derek shakes his head. "I … don't remember." He smiles a smirky little smile, though, and he says, "I'm sure Meredith was right."

Stewart guffaws. "Important marital strategy, man. Take it all the way to the bank."


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Notes:**

Eep! Behind on feedback again, but I promised on Twitter that I'd try to get this posted tonight as a treat for you all. Thank you SO much for the comments on chapter 19. I really appreciate them. Ch 19-22 is my favorite part in the story (other than the final chapter). I'd really love to hear from you if you have a moment to drop me a line :) I'll catch up on replying individually soonish!

* * *

 **Week twenty.**

Tuesday, Meredith's shift runs hours late because of an emergency surgery, and she has to call Stewart to ask him to pick up Zola from school when he grabs Annie. Her shift runs so late, in fact, that Meredith arrives home after both kids are in bed, and the nanny is gone. She finds Carolyn sitting on the sofa, knitting needles tinking away as she makes … something indigo-colored and fuzzy under the soft lamplight. As Meredith puts down her purse on the center island, the back sliding door opens, and Derek steps in from outside. He smiles at her.

"Hello," he says.

"Hey!" she says. "Stargazing?"

"Yes," he says. "It's clear. Good for watching. I saw .…" His words trail away. His mouth moves. His eyes close. "I …. I .…" He looks at her with a _help-me_ expression she's learned to interpret. He knows the word, but he can't get himself to say it. "I can't .…"

"Satellite?" she guesses. He shakes his head. "Moon? Comet? Milky Way? Planet?" More head shakes. "Star?"

"This," he says. "But it moves."

"A shooting star?" she supplies for him.

He nods. "Yes, this."

"Good evening," adds Carolyn, looking up from her knitting project with a smile. "I sent Melody home – no sense in asking her to stay late when I was already here. How are you?"

Meredith sighs and collapses onto the couch next to Carolyn. Meredith wants to watch the news or something, but the remote rests zillions of miles away on the coffee table, buried in magazines and unsorted mail. She doesn't bother to make a grab for it. "Exhausted," she says. "I spent all day in surgery. Then drove. This is my first chance to turn my brain off in sixteen hours."

Derek steps into the space behind her. He bends low to kiss her temple. Then he puts his palms over her trapezius muscles and squeezes his hands to help her unkink. His left side massage has about three times the potency of his right side one, but she'll take anything. Besides, she's pleased he has a grip to do **any** kind of massage. Months ago, he didn't. She leans into his touch with a pleased groan.

"Sorry you're tired," he says as he rubs her.

She gives him a soft smile in return. "Nothing sleep won't fix. I just need to unwind a little first. That feels so good. Keep doing that."

He does, and she relaxes with half-lidded eyes. "What are you doing?" Derek says.

At first Meredith thinks he's talking to her, but when Carolyn answers, "This?" Meredith stops worrying about doing anything sentient. She listens, and she sighs as Derek's fingers dig into all her knots, knocking tension loose like the tension is the pins, and he's doing some bowling.

"Yes," Derek says. "What …?"

"I'm knitting a scarf."

"Scarf," Derek parrots. A question, but not.

"It keeps your neck warm when it's cold."

Derek stops massaging for a moment. The air moves behind her, and Meredith can feel him leaning over the back of the couch to peer at Carolyn's bounty. "You can turn string into … scarf?"

"I can," Carolyn says. "I'm turning this string into a scarf for **you** , actually."

"It's for me?"

"Yes," Carolyn says. A pause follows as she shifts in her seat, and the cushion squeaks. Meredith peers through her eyelashes to see Carolyn twisting around behind herself, holding her blue bounty up to Derek's face. "This is a great color for you."

"Did I knew how …," Derek says. He pauses. Thinks. "Knew." More thinking while syllables loiter in his throat with a strange, halting, popping rhythm, like he's trying to force something through that's too big for his vocal cords. "Know," he spits out. "Know. Know," he repeats. "Did I know how to … do this?"

"I taught you when you were a boy," Carolyn replies.

Meredith sits up straight and blinks. "Seriously, Derek could knit?" she says.

Carolyn smiles. "Yes, he could," she says. She looks up at Derek with a warm gaze. "Very well, I might add."

"Derek," Meredith says with disbelief. "Derek could knit. Derek as in Derek Shepherd could knit?"

Derek cocks his head at her. "W-why … is this funny?"

"It's … not," Meredith says. "It's just … not jibing with the Derek I knew. He teased me about knitting, you know." _So, when's the knitting start?_ she hears him say with a derisive snort in the back of her head.

Derek frowns. "I teased you?"

"Yes, you did."

His frown deepens. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago," she says with a shrug and a smile. She grabs his hand, which still rests on her shoulder, and squeezes it. "Don't worry about it."

"I taught Mark to do this, too, you know," Carolyn says, pulling the conversation away from old memories.

Meredith turns to Carolyn, gaping. "No way," Meredith says. "Really?"

Carolyn nods. "Really. I taught him and Derek at the same time."

"Okay, Derek's a shock," Meredith says, "but Mark? I really can't .… Mark? Seriously? My worldview just exploded."

Carolyn gives her a shrug and a nod. "Seriously," she says.

"Will you teach me again?" Derek says.

Carolyn looks up at her son. Delight lights up her face. "If you'd like, of course, I will!"

"I don't know if I like," Derek says. "That's why … I … question." He pauses, makes an irritated noise deep in his throat. "Why … I … ask."

Carolyn takes this misinterpretation in stride, though, and doesn't frown at him, doesn't do anything to draw attention to his conversational wrong turn. She smiles at him like he's given her a snowflake in a hot desert. All she says is, "Of course, sweetheart. I don't have any extra yarn with me, though. I'll have to buy some tomorrow."

Derek flexes his knuckles in Meredith's grasp, closing his fingers around her thumb with a real grip. God, she loves that. That he can do that, now. He still has a terrible time writing, not just because of his aphasia, but because of his lack of dexterity, but that he can pick things up and hold her hand is … amazing. "You know, knitting might help more with your hand," Meredith says, petting his fingers.

"You think?" Derek says.

"Oh, yes," Carolyn says. "I bet it would. You boys did it all the way through medical school. Said something about it helping surgical dexterity."

Meredith snorts. She … can't picture that. Mark and Derek knitting over their beers while cramming for their next anatomy test or whatever.

"May I go?" Derek says.

"Go where?" Carolyn says.

"To buy … yarn. Tomorrow."

Carolyn beams. "Of course you can, sweetheart. I'll wait until you get back from rehab."

* * *

"Meredith, how are you?" Todd, the tall redheaded rehab counselor who reminds her of a matchstick, says. He smiles as she settles on the big blue couch in his office. "I'm assuming things have improved since we last spoke, since I haven't heard from you before now."

"Yes. Yes, much," she says. She dropped Derek off at rehab a few minutes early, so she'd have time for a quick shot of advice. "Thank you for talking me off the ledge. I got the issues with the kids straightened out for the most part. Pause really helped."

"Good, I'm glad," he says. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I'm wondering if the center has any resources for parents with TBIs?" she says. "Derek's interested in parenting independently, and I'm trying to help work him up to that."

Todd frowns. "What does he need help with, specifically?"

"Well, he doesn't remember anything from before," Meredith says. "He's learning from scratch. And, I thought, maybe … there's a class that could help him a little, one that would cater to his specific disabilities? I keep finding information on classes for parents with kids who have TBIs, but no classes for parents with TBIs themselves. Surely, there has to be other parents out there with TBIs?"

Todd nods, and he purses his lips while he thinks. The fish tank burbles. "Unfortunately, with the wide spectrum of possible side-effects of TBIs, it's hard to have a class specific to every parent's needs," he says. "Have you considered a regular parenting class? Aside from the speech issues, Derek's pretty high-functioning. Oh, or you could try the National Parenting Helpline."

Meredith blinks. "There's a helpline for parenting?"

"Isn't there a helpline for everything these days?" Todd says with an easy smile.

She snorts. "Good point."

"They might be able to point you to a parenting skills class tailored toward someone with his specific issues," Todd says. "Maybe not a class specifically for someone with a TBI, but his deficits mimic lots of other disabilities."

"Thanks," she says. "I'll look into that."

Todd pulls out a sheet of green paper from his messy desk and proffers it to her. "It's not a class," Todd says, "but the center does have a bi-weekly group meeting for parents with TBIs. Do you think he might want to attend that?"

"What are the meetings about?"

Todd shrugs. "Anything they want to talk about. Trials. Tribulations. Triumphs. The common ground is that they have TBIs and are parents. Childcare questions do come up quite a bit. My wife enjoys attending."

"Can your wife … take care of your kids?"

Todd shakes his head. "No, not by herself. She's got serious issues with sequencing, problem solving, and attending."

"Oh," Meredith says, "I'm sorry." And all at once, she's struck again with how lucky she is that Derek's as healthy as he is. That Derek's okay.

"Thanks," Todd says. "It took me a while to come to terms with it. I still miss her sometimes."

Meredith nods. Though she gets him, she thinks saying, "Me, too," would be horribly insensitive, here, so she says nothing. She glances at the sheet Todd gave her. The meetings are on Tuesday afternoons which is … awful. Derek can't drive, and there's no way she can drive two hours both ways to pick him up in the middle of a work day to make the meeting. She frowns. Crap.

Maybe, assuming he wants to go, she could have his rehab schedule rearranged? Or, maybe, she can talk to Derek's occupational therapist about teaching him how to use the public bus system, so he can get to the center on his own. The nearest bus stop to their house is a four mile walk, so he'd need a little help to get there, but she can't imagine Stewart or Melody would mind giving him the occasional five minute ride. **Could** Derek use the bus, now? A gnawing sense of trepidation like the precursor to a panic attack makes her shift on her feet. Her chest tightens. The paper flyer crinkles as her fist closes around it.

"Meredith?" Todd says.

She shakes her head, and the crushing feeling is gone. She folds the slip of paper into crisp quarters and stuffs it in her purse. "Thanks for the suggestions," she says. She glances at her watch. If she doesn't get moving, she's going to be late for work. "I have to run, now, but I really appreciate your advice."

Todd grins at her. "Anytime, Meredith. That's what I'm here for."

* * *

On Wednesday night, Derek gives her what's become the normal bedtime show. A full frontal view as he changes. But this time, his clothes stay off, and he crawls into bed naked.

* * *

On Thursday night, they try the dual striptease again. This time, though, he doesn't balk. And he's not so embarrassed about his state of undress that he can't enjoy the view of her, also undressed. She bites her lip, enjoying his appreciative look as his gaze roves from her head to her toes, pausing for an eternity at her chest level, and then again closer to her waist.

She winks at him. "Like what you see?"

"Yes," he says, the word hardly more than a growl.

They sleep skin-to-skin for the first time in sixteen months.

* * *

On Friday morning, Meredith wakes to darkness. Early morning birdsongs flutter in the air. Derek's hand is draped over her hip. They lie naked, flush, warm. Derek's even breathing rustles against her neck. She squints at her alarm. 4:33 a.m. Her alarm will go off in twenty-seven minutes. She doesn't want to get up. She wants to stay in the bed and be with her husband and not work.

She bites her lip, staring at her phone, which rests beside her clock.

Screw it. Screw it all.

She grabs the phone and speed dials the hospital. It's not much of a stretch to croak into the phone this early in the morning. She easily fakes a cold. She calls the nanny next to tell her not to bother coming today. Last, she phones the rehab center and cancels Derek's Friday appointments. She turns off her alarm, which means no alarm for Derek, either, since his alarm on rehab days is her giving him a fifteen minute warning before she needs to leave.

For the first time in years, Meredith Grey plays hooky, and she falls back to sleep in Derek's arms.

* * *

The kids don't wake Meredith up, and she drifts awake around nine. Derek's still out like a comatose bear. She pads into the kitchen in search of coffee, only to find Carolyn already up and entertaining Bailey. Zola is nowhere to be seen. Carolyn smiles as Meredith stumbles groggily into the main part of the house.

"I noticed you never went to work, and the nanny didn't show at the usual time," Carolyn says. "I fed the kids breakfast and took Zola to school, so you could sleep. Is everything okay? Are you feeling well?"

Meredith gives Carolyn a sheepish look. "Thank you," Meredith says. "You didn't need to do that. Everything's fine. I … um …. I sorta played hooky."

Carolyn smiles. "We all need a break from life now and then." She thinks for a moment. "Why don't I take care of Bailey today, and you and Derek can enjoy yourselves?"

Meredith swallows. "You're sure? I hate to dump Bailey on you for what's supposed to be a visit with Derek."

"It's not just a visit with Derek," Carolyn says. "It's a visit with all of you, daughter-in-law and grandchildren included. Please, you've had such a terrible year. Let me help, dear, and you and Derek go have some time with each other. You deserve it."

A lump forms in Meredith's throat. "Thanks," she says. "Thanks, that's really nice of you."

* * *

She and Derek sit in the little diner at the marketplace in town. Not in town, Seattle. In town, the tiny cluster of little shops and restaurants at the center of their middle-of-nowhere. The location of the single bus stop. The diner is cozy, and everybody knows everybody. Well, not everybody. It's not like in _Cheers_ or something. Anonymity still exists. But most not-strangers in the area are known to some degree, at least recognized, if nothing else.

Sometimes, usually around minute fifty of her sixty-three minute commute, Meredith hates the fact that she and Derek live in the middle of nowhere. Other times, she relishes it. This is one of those times where she finds herself relishing it. She likes the quiet. And she didn't realize until Derek made her realize it, but she likes the space, too. She likes the vague not-quite-anonymous anonymity.

Derek sits across from her in the small booth. The red vinyl seats are old, and Meredith's has a tear through which she can see foamy stuffing. Pop-y tunes from the '60s filter through the speakers. There are cymbals in abundance, but the music floating on the air is quiet enough that it doesn't seem to bother him at the moment. He stares at his menu.

Meredith knows what she wants, so she rests her chin on the back of her hands and watches him, instead. He's come a long way since Pike Place. The menu has a lot of pictures to help him interpret what he's reading, and Derek fumbles his way through the sparse text interspersed with the pictures. His index finger crawls along each line on the menu as he reads, and his eyes dart back and forth. Meredith would be happy to help him if he needs it, but she knows he knows that, so she doesn't butt in with an offer of assistance that might make him feel pressured to finish faster.

She lets him have his time, and she sips on her coffee. She's happy to wait until the remainder of the morning shakes hands with afternoon, frankly, because she's sitting in a diner with her alive husband, who's reading again, and she has caffeine. Life couldn't be more perfect.

When Derek looks up from his menu, he opens his mouth like he wants to say something to Meredith, but he doesn't get a chance to speak. One of the sort-of-familiar waitresses trots up to the table with a pen and a pad at the ready. "What can I get you two this morning?" she says.

"I'll have the number four with bacon, eggs over easy, and sourdough toast, please," Meredith says.

The waitress smiles and nods. "And you?" she says, turning to Derek.

Derek looks like he's been caught in a mortifying state of undress by his mother or something, but the look bleeds away into grim acceptance before Meredith can think too hard about why she saw what she saw. He glances up at the waitress and manages a wobbly smile, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out except a random syllable that doesn't make a word. He tries again. And again. And again. He takes a deep breath, and he closes his eyes. He thinks. He tries one more time. Nothing. Eventually, he takes the menu and points at what he wants.

"Okay," says the waitress. She smiles. "Sausage or bacon?"

Derek swallows. He thinks. "Sausage," he manages.

"How do you want your eggs?"

More thinking. He tries to talk. He does. His face reddens the more he tries. The waitress, to her credit, doesn't comment, doesn't prod, doesn't do anything to make the situation worse.

"Maybe, scrambled?" Meredith suggests in a quiet voice, trying to offer Derek a lifeline. "You like them scrambled."

"Yes," he says like a gunshot, short, abrupt. "Yes, this."

"Okay, sounds good," the waitress says. "What kind of toast?"

"W-what?" Derek manages. He thinks. "W-what … kind .…" More thinking. "H-have?"

"White, wheat, rye, and sourdough."

Derek stares at the woman. At this point, he's red like a freaking stoplight. He thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks. "W … w …." A pause. "The … w … one word," he manages.

"Pardon?" says the waitress.

Derek looks like he wants the floor to swallow him.

"He means the first," Meredith says in hopes of offering rescue. "The first word." She glances at Derek. "You meant white toast, right?"

He nods.

The waitress smiles, grabs their menus, and leaves, and Derek slumps in his seat like he's dropped a six-ton weight. He puts his face into his hands.

"Derek, are you okay?" Meredith says. She's never seen him this bad, before, and this is early for him. He's slept. He should be fine. Well, fine for him. Which means short sentences, but sentences, nonetheless.

"I'm okay," he says with none of the discombobulation he displayed with the waitress.

She frowns. "What happened?" When he doesn't speak, she slides out of the booth and switches to his side of the table. She sits next to him, and she wraps her arms around him. She runs a palm from his shoulder to his elbow. "Derek, what happened?"

"I don't like talking to strangers," he says, a murmur against her.

She bites her lip, thinking back to all the times they've been out of the house together. He talks to her plenty. But, now that he draws her attention to the idea that he's not the same gregarious Derek she used to know, she doesn't think she can recall ever seeing him talk voluntarily to anybody other than friends and family. Out of necessity, yes, he ordered margaritas for her at that gala, though she wasn't present for his orders, so she has no idea how well he handled asking. When the socialites at the gala tried to draw him into a chat, he went from semi-fluent to not-at-all in an eye-blink. Same with when Callie said hello to him at her dinner party. And Stewart, yes, they spoke, back when Stewart was still a stranger, but Stewart was the one who started that conversation, not Derek, and Stewart's the one who kept it going, and going, and going, like a bull ramming into a fence post until it toppled. Derek's not rude. He doesn't ignore people on purpose, but he doesn't talk without prodding, either. He never fires the first shot unless he has no other option.

Crap, Meredith thinks. How did she never notice this before?

She always thought it was his aphasia kicking in, but … it's more than that. She tightens her grip around him. One of the surefire ways to make him fumble for words, even when he's well-rested, is by upsetting him. Which means having to order his breakfast upset him, but .…

"Derek, are you embarrassed to talk to people you don't know?"

He sighs in her arms. "I … I … I don't talk right, Meredith. I don't … like … talking to other … people."

"But you're fine," she insists. "You're perfectly understandable in the mornings. No one would guess you have any issues."

" **I** know I have them," Derek says. "I think … **so** hard … to talk you. To you. Like this."

She frowns. "I know you do. I know it's hard for you, but I swear, Derek, nobody would ever, **ever** guess. Not right now. You talk just fine to me."

"I can't, Meredith," he says in a whisper.

"You can," she tells him. "You so can."

He shifts in her grasp, agitated. "Things don't … w-w-work when I'm .…" He sighs like he's lost his words and doesn't know how to get them back.

"I know what you mean, Derek," she says. "I do. It's hard not to mess up when you're hyper-fixated on not messing up." She pauses and lets him catch up. "But you have nothing to be self-conscious about. Nothing. Okay?"

He doesn't answer her, and she sighs. She doesn't expect this little pep talk to have any immediate effects, but she hopes, if she pounds it into him enough, he'll start to realize that the world isn't made up solely of assholes like Dr. Plank. Yes, people will notice Derek's got some problems with speech, but anyone with an ounce of sensitivity would never give him crap about it like Dr. Plank did at the gala.

When the waitress comes back with their food and sets it all down on the table for them, Derek reddens all over again and won't look up from his lap. His lips move, like, maybe, he's trying to eject a, "Thank you!" With his head down, though, the waitress doesn't see that he's trying to talk, and she leaves before Derek makes any words at all. He makes a soft, upset noise as the waitress walks away.

"I can't," he says, freed from muteness once the woman is gone. "I can't do it." He touches his throat. "This … part. Won't happen. I think, and … I think, but it … **won't**."

Steam coils from the plates – they've both ordered strawberry pancakes – but Meredith doesn't take her fork, yet. She pushes her plate so it bumps into his. She kisses his cheek. This sucks. This sucks that he's so fixated on not making a mistake that he paralyzes himself into making mistakes left and right, which only worsens the negative feedback loop he's created with himself. He needs to have a good interaction with a stranger. A good one longer than the bare sentence needed to ask for a drink from a bar or … whatever. Meredith has no idea how to engineer that for him, though.

This is another massive personality change since the accident, probably more massive than the gluttony. He's shy. Derek Shepherd is shy to the point of morbidity. Not shy about things. About discovery. About seeing this new, crazy world he's found himself in. Just … people.

 _So, is this a good place to hang out?_ she can hear him say in the back of her head.

This new Derek never would have said that. Ever. She kisses him again. She's glad she met him before he reached this point. She would have missed out on an epic.

* * *

They take a long walk around the lake after brunch, his arm draped over her shoulder, hers across the back of his waist. It's the end of September. The days are getting shorter and cooler, but Seattle's been blessed this day with unseasonable warmth. The deciduous trees are changing colors, and Derek stops every few minutes to take in the molten-colored view, or to pick up a leaf and stare.

"Ask me why I played hooky," Meredith says.

"Why did you played …?" He sighs. "Played. Play. Play. Play. Why did you … play hooky?"

She grins at him. He's getting better at it. His knee jerk is still to use the wrong grammar, but if he thinks hard, he can get it right without too much strain.

"What is play hooky?" he says.

"Oh," Meredith says. "It's … um … skipping an obligation to do something fun."

He swallows, and he thinks. "I'm playing hooky?"

"Huh?" she says.

"You cancelled my rehab."

She snorts, and she leans in close to kiss him. "I guess you are, you bad, bad, man."

He laughs. "I enjoy this," he says.

"Being bad?" she teases.

He gives her a long, affectionate look. "Oh, yes," he says. "That in particular."

He stops at a bush that's turned bright yellow and picks off a leaf to stare at it like the leaf is his world for that moment. She watches with him. She likes watching with him. A yellow leaf was humdrum, before, but she fixates on the narrow oval. The leaf has a vein running down the middle, and zillions of little veins spreading out from the center line. It's a complex, beautiful thing deserving of the attention Derek gives it. He may not be a doctor anymore, but he has the same deep fascination with life that made him slog through hours and hours of biology and chemistry classes in the first place.

"Why does it do this?" he says, flipping the leaf over to stare at the back.

"Turn yellow?"

He nods.

"The chlorophyll that causes the green color dies out in the winter," she says, pulling up biology lessons she hasn't cared to think about in years. "The yellow is there year-round, but the green is … louder, I guess you could say."

"Oh," he says. "Chlorophyll makes it green?"

"Yep. It's a pigment."

"Pigment makes color?" he says.

"In plants, yes," she says. "I forget what the yellow pigment is called. It starts with an x, I think. Xan … xan .…" She frowns. "I forget."

They keep walking. A flock of ducks paddles near the edge of the water near the reeds, honking at each other. He stops to watch that, too. All at once, they launch from the water into flight. Drops of lake water splash everywhere.

"Did I … s … scare them?" he says.

"I don't think we did anything," Meredith says. "I think they just wanted to fly."

"Hmm," he says. "I will fly … all chances … if I can fly."

She grins at him. "I think I'd pick invisibility."

"What?" he says.

She bumps her hip into his. He absorbs the blow and sways on his feet. He gives her a bewildered look, and she's sure to beam at him to demonstrate that this was supposed to be a flirty thing, not an I'm-pushing-you-into-the-lake thing. "Well, we're talking about favorite superpowers, right?" she says. "Like Superman or whatever." Stewart loves comics. Loves. She knows Derek knows Superman, now. Hell, Stewart's even made a convert out of Derek. Reading is difficult for Derek, but he loves looking at pictures, so, comics are the best of both worlds, giving him practice and plenty to look at at the same time. "I'd pick invisibility."

Sure enough, Derek smiles when comprehension dawns. "Oh," he says. He looks out at the water. "I think I will pick … not flying."

"What would you pick?" she says.

He glances back at her. She tightens her arm around his waist. His mouth moves. He thinks. After a few false starts, he says, "Wolverine," with massive effort.

Meredith frowns. "The guy with the claws?"

"Yes, him," Derek says.

"You want to be a guy with claws?" Meredith says. "What for?"

Derek shakes his head. "No, I don't want claws. I want .…" He thinks. "He can heal." He searches for more words, thinking. He runs his fingers along the left side of his head, tracing his scar. "I will choose … healing."

"Oh," she says as gravity sinks in.

She has no idea what to say to that. None. Except then he imitates her flirty hip bump and grins at her. "I'm okay, Meredith," he says. "But we make wishes in this game." He shrugs. "So, I wish." And then he kisses her world away. Pretty yellow leaves, honking ducks, and imaginary superpowers all take flight and leave her mind focused on him, instead. "I'm okay," he repeats against her skin. He nuzzles her. "I kiss you, now," he says, and she gets the impression this is his circumspect, aphasia way of telling her he's glad he didn't die.

"I'm glad you didn't die, too," she says.

He answers with a soft smile and a, "Hmm," that she thinks means, "I'm happy."

"Me, too," she says. And they keep walking.

* * *

When they arrive at the dock after a leisurely two hours around the lake, they walk out to the edge to watch the water for a little. Water sloshes and slaps at the dock struts. A balmy breeze blows.

She's struck with an unexpected idea. Last time they came out here alone, things were nowhere near the getting-naked stage of finding intimacy again. But he slept with her naked last night. He's been doing stripteases for her, getting comfortable being naked with her, and this might be a perfect chance to reinforce those goals. Getting him comfortable with her.

"Do you know how to swim?" she says.

He pries himself from watching a heron posing like a statue in the reeds to look at her. He frowns. "I know … how … to … not drown."

She snorts. "Well, that's a critical starting point, I guess," she says. With that, she grabs the hem of her shirt, pulls it over her head, and drops it at their feet.

His eyes widen. "What are you doing?"

She winks as she reaches behind herself to undo the clasp of her bra. "Remember swimming with me? Skinny dipping? Without clothes, it's called skinny dipping."

"Yes," he says.

"That's what I'm doing," she says. She peels off her bra, exposing herself to open air. She kicks off her shoes and drops her pants, next. "You can join me if you want," she says. "Or don't. Up to you." She hopes he'll take the bait, though. "I just feel like a swim." She peels off her socks and underwear last, until she's standing on the dock buck naked in front of him.

She doesn't miss his gaze drop below her neckline. He swallows. She leans on her tiptoes, and she gives him a kiss. Then she leaps off the edge of the dock into the water. Her toes hit the muddy, weed-covered bottom, and she scrunches her toes for purchase. Something slimy touches her leg, and she hopes it's a plant. She hopes. Water laps at neck level, and she spits out a mouthful.

The water isn't warm. It's not cold either. Derek stares down at her, still clothed.

"It's not deep here. You can stand on the bottom," she assures him. "You don't have to swim if you don't want to."

He licks his lips. His gaze ticks nervously to their surroundings. "No one sees?"

"This is our land, Derek," she says. "No one's here but me."

She has to resist the urge to bark with amusement when he drops his cane on the dock and strips like he's on fire, covers his privates with both hands while he's exposed to air, and then jumps into the water, all in what feels like a matter of seconds. She can't get over his modesty, sometimes. Another new thing. This Derek seems unwilling to flaunt and strut.

He wades over to her. The water that's neck-level for her is chest-level for him. His teeth chatter a little, but the chattering stops as he gets used to the new temperature enveloping his skin.

"Hi," she says when he gets close.

He swallows. "Hello."

"If you go out about ten more feet, the lake floor drops out, so be careful," she says.

He nods. She backpedals away from him, and he follows, but he stops when he gets up to his chin. She gets to the drop, and she treads water, watching him. He stands there, doing nothing but watching her in return.

"Are you okay?" she says.

That seems to shake him out of whatever made him stop. He steps toward her again. She can tell when he loses the floor, because he gasps, and he starts to tread water for a second. He dog paddles to get the rest of the way to her. She watches him for any signs that he might not be safe in the water like this, but, aside from the fact that he seems to have lost all knowledge of any of the trillions of swimming strokes he used to know, he looks like he knows what he's doing. He's good at the not drowning thing. Just not much else water-related. It's such an incongruous change from the Derek she used to know. The Derek who jumped into Elliott Bay to save her life.

"It's easier if you go like this," she says, and she shows him an unprofessional approximation of the breast stroke that doesn't involve dunking her head underwater every stroke, something that might be easier for him than freestyle, given his weak side. Breast stroke relies on the whole body for each stroke, so the weakness in his right side should get absorbed and compensated for by his left. She hopes.

He copies the motions of her arms and legs, and his desperate dog paddle slides into a sedate pseudo breast stroke. He sighs like he's glad he's found something that takes less effort. She swims up to him. She gives him a peck on the cheek like they're playing tag with lips instead of hands, and then darts away.

Something halfway resembling a chuckle falls from his lips, and she smiles. This is kind of a treat for her, having the tables flipped. Last time they did this, he was the dolphin, and she was the one who couldn't keep up with him. She spent the whole time in the water hopelessly outmatched as he teased her without mercy.

 _How in the hell?_ she snapped. _Do you have flippers for feet? I'm a good swimmer, damn it!_

He smirked. _You_ _ **are**_ _a good swimmer. I'm just better._

 _This is why I love you,_ she said. _Your unfailing_ _humility_ _._

She paddles close to Derek again, smiling at that memory. She gathers a breath, filling her lungs, and dips under the water. She sees a pale, fleshy, water-treading blur, and she swims toward it. She grabs … a foot. And she runs her fingers along the sole. He kicks, and she lets him go, not wanting to cause him problems staying afloat. When she surfaces, she pops up from the water and gives him another peck on the cheek.

When she wipes the water from her eyes, she finds his twinkling gaze peering back at her. "You tickle," he says.

"Yes, I believe I did," she says. She winks. She circles him. He watches her with narrowed eyes like he expects to get jumped. "It's allowed, you know."

"Tickle is … allow?"

"Yep," she says. "The marriage rulebook. Spouses can tickle."

"Where is … rulebook?" he says, panting. "I need … to read."

She closes the space between them, sliding up against his back. She wraps her arms around him, and this time, she drifts against his stomach with the tips of her fingers. A bare touch that has him jerking away in a full body spasm of laughter.

"Somewhere in my temporal lobe," she says.

He laughs when he figures out what she's driving at. "You make it up."

"Yep!"

He tries to escape, but she follows, dogging him as he flees.

"Not so fun when you're the victim, eh?" she says, laughing with him.

His giggles pierce the air with the other birdsongs. "What is … we … I chase?" he manages nonsensically between gasping gales of laughter. She pursues him in a loop, laughing along with him, playing. She can't remember the last time they played like this.

What she doesn't count on, though, is the fast-freaking-learner thing biting her in the ass. After about fifteen minutes, she's having a harder time keeping up with him. She's not sure when or how it happens, but after about twenty minutes of pestering him until he's at the point where he can't talk because all he's doing is laughing, he manages to turn things around, and she's swimming for her life. He's not as fast as he used to be. He can't be when half his body doesn't work as well anymore. But he's fast enough to chase her down. She's a good swimmer, but she's no Michael Phelps.

"See how it feel!" he says, and he gets her in the armpits.

She shrieks, laughing until her vision has spots. His arms wrap around her, and he has her prisoner. He doesn't tickle this time, though. He kisses her breath away, and then he leaves her to head back to shore. She follows, but not to chase this time, not when he's sending clear "done" signals.

When he gets back to the shallow floor by the dock, back to chest level, he stops. He's panting, and he seems to be happy to have his feet under him again. He lifts his hand out of the water to swipe wet hair out of his face. His hand shakes, but she thinks this has nothing to do with chill. The water doesn't feel that cold now that she's gotten used to it.

"You okay?" she says as she glides to a stop next to him.

He grins at her. "Yes," he says, panting. "I have fun."

She shifts a step forward, into his space, and she gently takes his right arm into her hands. The whole limb is shaking. He may have pushed his body, his weak side at least, a bit too far. Swimming is a lot of exercise. She wraps her hand around his wrist, and then slides her palm up his arm in a slow massage. The water makes him slippery, and she drifts up and down and up and down in a soothing motion.

His eyelids dip, and his fingers flex, and a deep, "Hmm," drifts into the air from deep in his chest.

"Tell me about a memory you haven't told me about, yet," she says.

He takes a while translating that for himself, longer than usual, which confirms her overdid-it theory. "Anything?" he says.

She nods. "Anything."

He swallows. "Dad take me baseball game when I'm kid."

"Who was playing?" she says. She shifts from his arm to his side, rubbing him waist to armpit on his right side. He sinks against her fingers like her touch is a balm.

"I remember blue and orange like Stewart."

She frowns. Blue and orange .… He must mean Stewart's Knicks shirts. Stewart wears a lot of Knicks shirts. But she has no idea what baseball team has matching colors. "I only know the Knicks," she says. "And that's the wrong sport."

Derek shrugs. "We eat … hot dog," he says. "And .…" He frowns. "P-pink thing."

"Cotton candy?"

"I don't know."

"Did it look kind of like a cloud on a stick?" she says.

"Yes."

"That's cotton candy."

"Okay," he says. "Cotton candy." A warm smile stretches across his face. "He tell me happy birthday." His grin widens. "I think … it's my seven?"

She stops rubbing and wraps her arms low around his waist, clasping her hands together at the small of his back. They mash together, front to front, awake, not going to sleep, so this is different than they've been doing at bedtime, and this is what she'd hoped for when she tried to bait him into joining her. She takes careful stock of Derek. He's relaxed, peering at her through half-lidded eyes that speak of a sated sort of tiredness. She presses her lips to his chest, and he wraps his arms over her in return. They stand, body to body, no space between them whatsoever.

"Your dad told you happy birthday?"

"Yes," he says. "And it smell like … peanut."

She smiles at him. She's glad he's kept memories of his father. His father isn't around to make any new ones with him anymore, so the memories Derek has kept are like precious gems. "I'm really glad you still have that, Derek."

"Yes, I like this moment," he says. "Now, you tell me."

She frowns. "A memory?"

"Yes," he says, nodding. "Tell me one I don't know."

He cups her chin, and she can't look away. Not that she'd want to. This kind of intimacy, this kind that they've found since the accident, is a heady treat.

"You and I were … fighting," she says.

He frowns. "Okay."

"I wanted us to not be fighting."

"What is this fight for?" he says.

"You wanted a commitment from me that I was terrified of giving."

His frown deepens. "I yell at you to give it?"

"Well, not yell, but you pressured me, and I was scared."

"I'm sorry," he says, and the sincerity in his tone slays her.

"It's okay," she says, though she's amazed how nice it is to hear from him, that he's sorry, even more than eight years late. _I'm a little late. I know I'm a little late, telling you that .…_ "We settled this years ago, anyway."

"But I pressure," he says, swallowing. And the genuine heartache she sees in his expression makes her eyes water. "I .…" He stops, and he thinks. "I feel bad when people pressure me."

"I know," she says. _I feel … shoehorn,_ she hears him say. "I don't think you knew how it felt back then."

"I'm sorry," he says again. He shifts on his feet. The water sloshes around his naked body. "I hate that I pressure you." He looks out over the lake, an upset expression in his eyes. "I hate .…" He thinks, and then he looks back at her. "You are … you are … you are." He takes a deep breath. "You're patient. To me. With. W … w-with me." He shakes his head. "I hate that I pressure you."

"Shh," she says, heart squeezing at how contrite he is about this when he doesn't even have a real understanding about what the hell he did. "I'm not fishing for an apology. I swear." She pauses for him. "It's water under the thing or whatever," she says, pausing again. "I'm telling you a memory. Please, listen."

He takes a breath and stills. "Okay."

"Anyway, I wanted us to not be fighting," she said. "So, I did something silly and maudlin and romantic and totally against my normal code of dark-and-twisty conduct."

He stares at her for a long time, and she thinks she might have to back up a step to explain something. His mouth moves. Some of her words fleet across his lips like ghosts as he works his way through her sentence. Eventually he gives up with a frown. "I don't … understand."

She pares her words for him. She gives him a warm smile. "I bought candles."

"Candles," he parrots. His look of confusion deepens, not lessens. She can sympathize. _We were having a fight, so I bought candles_ is not the most logical leap in the world, even for people who understand all the words.

"A **lot** of candles, Derek," she clarifies, pausing. "I stripped the Walmart, the Target, and the CVS of their whole white candle inventory."

"In … shop place?" he says.

She has to think for a moment to figure out what he means. The place with the diner where they ate that morning. "Yes, those."

"You buy all their candle?" he says, like he's trying to understand rocket science.

"Yep," she says. "Every single one. I think I spent almost a thousand dollars." On freaking candles. She still doesn't know what the hell she was smoking that night, but she's glad she did it. The candle thing. Even though it made her Jeep smell like vanilla for a month.

He frowns. "How candle candle fix fight?" He winces and shakes his head. "How … can … candle .… fix … fight?" he says with deliberate pauses between each word.

"Well, this fight was about you wanting to build a house for us on your land," she explains.

"Why … does this pressure you?"

"It was a big step. A **huge** step for our relationship," she says. "We didn't even live together at that point."

"Oh," he says. "We … build our house?" He swallows. "The house we live?"

"Yes," she says. "We planned it together." She snorts. "Well, you planned. I mostly said yes a lot." He seems mystified by this entire thing, and she makes an effort to get to the punchline of this whole exchange. "Anyway, I used the candles to make a floor plan," she says.

"Like … map?"

"Yes," she says. "I made a map of a house to show you I was committing. The candles marked the walls."

He stares at her for a long moment, and at first she thinks she's lost him again, but he says in a slow march of syllables that have nothing to do with aphasia, "You do that … for me?" Like she's bought him a small island, not made a candle house. Like … he's amazed he's worth that much to her.

She grins at him. She rises on her tiptoes, and she kisses him. "Yes, I did," she says. "Well, for us, not just you."

He searches her face with his gaze. His eyes are a deep, brilliant blue in the sunshine. His eyes water, and he blinks. "I wish I can remember this," he says, voice thick. "I wish I can remember us."

"Well, we're making new memories, now," she says. "Skinny dipping, and walks around the lake, and ferryboat riding, and everything."

He gives her a soft, affectionate look. "Lemons into lemonade?" he murmurs.

"Yes," she says, grinning at him. "That."

* * *

That night, he kisses her, and time stops. It stops. That's the only way she can describe the sensation when he tips her head toward him, and he devours her. There's nothing between him and her. Nothing but skin, and her fingers rake down his bare chest, though she's careful to stay above his waist, despite the persistent throb in her lower body that demands more. That demands him to fill her emptiness.

He pants against her, breaths pummeling her skin, and she arcs backward, presenting herself to him. He's hesitant at first. The flat of his palm finds her navel, and he slides up her skin until his hand rests between her breasts. His touch is warm, but unskilled.

"Touch me," she says, hoping to encourage him. "Touch me, Derek."

He kisses her. Their intimate time in the lake must have helped him get more comfortable with her, because his hand drifts right. He cups her breast, and she sighs with pleasure. He's never done this before, never added hands to the kissing experience, not to this degree, not since the accident. He's being daring. When he tries to squeeze her like she's a melon or something, she says, "No. Like this." She cups her hand over his, and she draws his thumb in a gentle circle around her nipple. She makes sure to give him a moan to tell him she likes this.

Like with kissing, he's a fast freaking learner. And he's a good improviser, once he gets the general idea of what kind of touch is acceptable. He kisses her lips. Her chin. Her throat. And then instead of his fingers drawing circles, he kisses the rings instead. When he gets that figured out, he touches her other breast with his other hand, paying delicate, loving attention to both.

He hasn't touched her here in so long, her body is an aching maelstrom of need. She moans. "That's so good," she says.

When he pauses, she looks down at him, trying to gauge if he's hit his limit, but he hasn't. He's watching her pert nipple with a curious expression. "That's a good thing," she says. She touches her chest, showing him the spreading blush. "This is a good thing, too."

"This means you like it?" he says.

"More than," she responds, and a slow smile spreads across his face.

"What about this?" he says, and he puckers his lips and blows softly against her skin.

Her body hitches in surprise, and she can't stop a gasp. Her insides coil like a spring, and she says, "Yes. Yes, please."

"Or this?" he says. And then he wraps his lips around her nipple and sucks.

"Yes," she says, a bare breath more than a word. "Yes. Yes, please." When he pulls away, he blows again, this time on wet skin, and a shiver wracks her frame. "Yes," she says shakily. Her muscles tense. She arcs back into the pillow, vision going fuzzy.

He spends endless time there. Experimenting. Kissing every inch of her above the waist. Touching. Figuring out what makes her shake and moan. She hovers there, in that space, being teased and tormented and touched, in bed, naked with her husband, not making love, but making a kind of love all the same. Her body tightens and tightens and tightens like a screw. Her fingers curl. She rakes her hands through his hair. Down his naked back. And then it all pops loose. Everything. All that tension. Sixteen months of sexual draught.

Sparks glitter across her vision, and she's not sure what kind of sound she makes, but it must be a gnarly one, because when she floats back to earth, drunk on the remnants of her orgasm, he's staring at her with a graphic _what-the-fuck-was-that_ face. She gives him a lazy smile. "That was the **best** thing," she says. "You want me to do that as much as possible."

He blinks. "What is …?"

"It's called an orgasm," she says. "Have you heard that word?"

He swallows, and he shakes his head. "… How?"

"When you do all the right things for long enough, that happens," she says. Though, come to think of it, she can't remember the last time she orgasmed without a single touch below her waist. Not even penetration does it for her by itself, usually. She needs manual stimulation. "Not normally from that, though," she adds. "Don't feel like you're messing up if that doesn't happen again with just kissing." She sighs and flops against the pillow. "God, I needed that."

"That … felt good?" he says. He sounds doubtful.

She laughs. She hasn't thought about sex through the lens of a pure beginner in … ever. Because by the time she figured sex out enough to know all this stuff, she was far, far from a beginner. "I know, I know," she says, grinning at him. "It can kind of sound and look like agony, depending. But I swear it's not."

"You … maked .…" He thinks. "Made a face."

"A grimace?" she says. "Like this?" She gives him an estimation, curling her lips back and showing him teeth.

He nods.

"Yeah," she says. "That's a good face when we're doing this. I know it's weird."

He doesn't speak. The sheets rustle. When she looks at him, she sees him staring back at her, a desirous twinkle in his eye. His lips are kissable, he has curly, flyaway sex hair in spades, and his skin is flushed with a fuck-me hue. She considers offering him the orgasm experience, but hers was an accident, and she has no idea how she'd get him off without touching him down there. Intimate touching like that might be too big of a leap, right now, and she doesn't want to ruin this moment. She doesn't ever want him to feel pressure from her. Not ever. Not even a little.

Instead, she says what she's been waiting to say for weeks. "You look really freaking hot like that. Just FYI."

He laughs. A pleased, sexy laugh that makes her toes curl all over again, and a shiver zings through her body. She settles against her pillow, pulling the sheets up to her armpits. He's still watching her when she looks back at him. Still resting on his side, head propped up on one elbow.

"What?" she says.

"You keep surprise me," he says.

"Are they good surprises?" she says. She touches his chest. Twirls a finger in the fuzz between his pectoral muscles. "Or bad ones?"

He clasps his hand over hers, holding her prisoner against his breastbone. His smile lays her soul bare. "Good ones," he says in a low murmur. He dips low to kiss her on the lips. "Very good."

She sleeps better than she has in weeks.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Notes:**

Look! Another early post. I'm on a roll, and I'm all caught up. :D Thanks again, everyone, for the lovely feedback. I can't reply to people who aren't logged in, so I just wanted to add a big hearty thank you to all my readers that I can't respond to privately: Mary, Clara, Paz, Mtnative, CG, HighTeeaol, Baseballbabe19, gmgrech, Juli, Kate, Marie, Patsy, Neb1223, Ariana, Mecawa, Pat, MerDerLuvr, all my anonymous feedbackers, and anyone else I've missed naming. Thank you so much, truly! I read everything you had to say, and it made me smile.

So, this part. It's a bit transitional. Lots of wheels spinning, but no major WHOA or anything. Sexy times, revenge, sibling rivalry, and tourism. What else could you want? :D

* * *

 **Week twenty-one.**

There's a part of the morning where the sun is a sliver of blinding white-orange on the horizon, and the air around it quivers with heat. It's not predawn, but it's not full morning, either. It's a quiet time on every weekend day, where the kids aren't awake, yet, no alarm looms, and she can just be, listening to the birds and feeling the early light warm up her skin.

Derek's not a morning person anymore, not even close, although, now that he's participating more in childrearing, he's been getting up with the kids unless he has a pressing, health-related reason not to. Still, he's discovered this part of the morning, too. This quiet time that he can have with her. And he's pushed his weekend wakeup times even earlier as a result.

The covers rustle as he shifts until he's partially on top of her, and the weight of his torso mashes against her. She scrunches her fingers, feeling the muscles of his upper back bunch under her fingertips. He pushes his fingers through her hair, and her eyelids dip at the sensation of her hair moving, at his touch against her scalp. She slides her hands down his spine to rest her hands against his lower back. He kisses her lips, lingering, tasting. He has a smile on his face. Like he has a secret.

"What?" she says, tipping up to close the millimeters and kiss him back.

"What, what?" he replies.

She snorts. "You're smiling."

"I'm happy," he murmurs. He leans close, and his bright blue gaze searches her face.

She bites her lip. "I'm happy, too."

He kisses her. "In this light, your eyes are like trees." Another kiss. "So green." Another kiss. "You're very pretty."

She tips her head against his palm, and she shifts to hold his hand there, warm and alive against her cheek. "So are you," she says. She snorts. "I mean … you know what I mean."

"Yes," he says. He kisses her. "I know."

She stares at Derek through her eyelashes, blissed out at the feel of his lips on her body. His hands. Kissing, touching. She lies on her back, relaxed, and warm, and safe. With sex taken out of the equation, Meredith is surprised to find that her sex life, other than the missing sex, is better, now. After the accident.

Derek was good at sex. No, great. No, **fantastic**. But he got lost in wanting the payoff. Payoff after payoff after payoff. As many payoffs as he could cram into a single act of love. The more payoffs, the more pride he felt. She can't lay all the blame on him, though. She got fixated on the payoffs, too, and she egged him on. Make no mistake; payoffs are great, but she thinks, now, that payoffs shouldn't be the only thing considered when determining the quality of sex.

She doesn't remember the last time they cuddled for the sheer sake of, well, cuddling. Hugged, yes. Spooned, yes. Snuggled, yes. But they've never perpetuated a skin-to-skin enjoyment of each other's company for more than a few minutes. Except, now, he's sleeping naked next to her every night. And she's sleeping naked, too. There's nakedness. And he's gotten comfortable enough around her that he doesn't think twice about letting her look. At everything. He's shameless about his visual appraisals of her, too. And the visuals are what lead to the cuddling and the petting and the kissing. Nothing below the waist, yet, but that's also what takes all the pressure of finding the payoffs away. That's what makes it so intimate. There's no goal. Just love. Even when he's ready for the next baby step, she wants to perpetuate this. The focus on the journey, rather than the destination.

"I love you," she says, and he drinks her words with another kiss.

She aches for the, "I love you, too," to follow, but he doesn't have to say it for her to know he feels it. It's a simple articulation, but it's a complicated feeling. Maybe, he's trying to experience all the different aspects before he commits himself to it with words. But there's no way he can look at her like he's looking at her now and not feel it. There's no way. And, for now, she lets that be enough.

Derek Shepherd loves her. He's still figuring out what that means to him, but he does.

A soft knock rumbles against the door. "Dada?" says Bailey. "Dada, I hungry."

"Can we have pancakes?" Zola adds, muffled.

Derek clears his throat and looks back at the door. "Yes," he says. "One minute."

"We'll be right out, Zozo," Meredith adds. "Hang on."

Derek smiles at her, gives her one last kiss, and rolls out of bed in a glorious show of sculpted muscle. He pads, naked, to his dresser and grabs a pair of boxers. She yanks on a t-shirt and some underwear. Another kiss beside the closed door, and then they greet the arrival of Sunday with smiles.

* * *

Derek whips up pancakes like it's a skill he never lost. He flips them without effort, and he makes beautiful, fluffy, perfect circles, not panlumps. She stands next to him, watching him cook, while the kids wait at the table. The batter sizzles as he pours a fresh dollop into the pan.

"I notice the kids never ask me to fix anything, anymore," she says, resting her head on his shoulder.

He grins at her. "Because you can't cook."

She snorts. "I so, too, can cook!"

He thinks about what she's said for a moment. "You're right," he says with a conciliating nod. "You can cook."

She frowns at his sudden agreement. "I can?"

He leans, and he kisses her, and then he flips his pancake. "Yes," he says. "But then you burn."

"Okay," she admits. "So, **maybe** , I burn things. On occasion."

She giggles as he wraps his arms around her, and his affectionate laughter rumbles in her ear.

* * *

Meredith, Derek, Carolyn, Zola, and Bailey trek downtown that day with the Manning family for, as Stewart calls it, "A day of being hopeless suckers." They wander through Pike Place again. They watch the fishmongers, and the marketeers, and the gray, gloomy water. They do all sorts of touristy things, or, as Stewart calls it, "The suckers are sucking." They walk to the pier. They ride the ferryboat out to Bainbridge and back. For the finale of the day, they take taxis to the Space Needle. The line is long, and they end up having to go up to the top in two shifts. Carolyn and Sarah go up with the kids, and Stewart, Derek, and Meredith follow in the next group.

The second Derek steps off the elevator into the cool, wet breeze, he freezes, and he swallows. He looks at the expanse of scenery, at beautiful, gray, drizzly Seattle, stretching out in all directions like a sheet, and he pastes himself against the wall. He loses every hint of color, until he's not much more flesh-colored than a sheet of notebook paper.

"What's the matter?" Meredith says, frowning.

Derek doesn't speak, but Stewart takes one discerning look and says, "I think someone's afraid of heights."

Meredith's frown deepens. "He wasn't afraid of heights, before!"

"Well, you said brain damage can cause personality shifts, right?" Stewart says.

"Yes, but … one would think a phobia develops from bad memories, which he doesn't have," Meredith counters.

"Oh, good point," Stewart says. He frowns. "Derek, the wall there is … probably not the most interesting thing to see up here. Don't you want to take a look?"

"I … I … I can … see … here," Derek says in a soft, shivery voice. He stares at the city sprawling into what, from here, looks like a wall of gray. His eyes are wide, whites visible all around, and his nostrils flutter as he pants like he might be having an unhappy chat with his unwelcome buddy, panic attack.

Meredith gapes. Maybe, Stewart is right. Maybe, Derek is afraid of heights. How in the freaking hell did **that** happen? "Um," Meredith says. She touches Derek's arm. "Let's go back down, okay?" She's seen the Space Needle a zillion times, anyway. This trip was for Derek and the Mannings.

Derek nods, and they scale the wall to the down elevator, leaving Stewart behind to sightsee with Carolyn and Sarah and the kids. Derek escapes into the elevator. When the doors trundle shut, he sighs with relief and slumps against the cold, metal elevator wall. His grip on his cane is shaky and slippery with sweat.

"Derek, what on earth?" Meredith says as the elevator drops back down to ground level.

He gives her a helpless look. "I … I don't .…" His mouth moves, but he can't offer her any other words, and she thinks he might be too upset to talk right now.

"Did you fall in rehab or something?" she says. "Something they didn't tell me about?"

His mouth moves like he's trying to talk again, but he doesn't answer, and she opts to stop pushing him.

The elevator comes to a stop, and they step out at ground level. The shift in Derek's demeanor is instantaneous. Where before, she had a shivery, shaking, pale, monosyllabic Derek, she now has a Derek who's managed to ditch shivery and shaking, though he's kept a firm grip on pale, and monosyllabic remains to be seen. He seems wasted from the wave of fear that crushed him. She finds a nearby bench for them to sit on while they wait for everybody to come back down. Pigeons hunt and peck the ground at their feet, looking for scraps and finding none.

Derek swallows as he sits. "I … I … I … f-falled," he says in a shaken tone.

Meredith gapes. "In rehab? When did-"

But he shakes his head. "N-not then. Before."

She frowns. "Okay .…"

"All I remember is … fall." He flexes the fingers of his left hand and stares at his palm. That's the hand he almost destroyed, and a pit forms in her stomach. "And a noise. A big … noise." He looks at her. "I … I … I … I … don't know word."

"It's okay," she says.

He remembers the freaking plane crash. She can't think of any other explanation. Why in the hell, of all the memories he could have kept, did he have to freaking keep **that** one. She imagines if one has twenty or thirty memories to choose from, and one of them is a freaking plane crash, that might be a good reason for the spontaneous development of an intense fear of heights. Jeez, she hopes he doesn't remember her safety-pinning his arm shut while he screamed until he blacked out. She has no idea what to even say.

"Yeah, we, uh .…" She swallows. Seriously, only in her freaking life is this a topic of conversation. "We kind of fell out of a plane that one time."

"You're kidding, right?" Stewart says before Derek can process that or react. Stewart winces and slides to a sitting position on the bench next to Derek. He rests his crutches beside his hip and sighs a grateful-sounding sigh as his body relaxes.

"Stewart, didn't you want to see the Space Needle?" she says.

"I did want to," he says, "but my knee is killing me." He swallows. "And by killing, I mean all the little knee gnomes went out and bought daggers, and now they're stabbing me."

Meredith frowns. "Did you tear your ACL?" she says. She's never asked him what happened with his knee before, but she knows an ACL tear is what ends up benching a lot of runners.

He nods. "Well, I think 'ripped to shreds' is a more accurate descriptor than 'tore'," he says, giving both expressions long, spindly air quotes. He gives her a sloppy grin. "And this act of ripping to shreds would also include my MCL, and a couple other things with L at the end. Really, I never memorized the list. But, yes, of the many Ls I horribly destroyed, the ACL is one of them."

Meredith gapes. "Wow," she says.

"Yeah," Stewart says with a sigh. "No coming back from that, really. If it'd just been my ACL, I might have managed to hang in there for another few years, warming the bench with the second stringers. As it is, I'll be lucky if I ever run again."

"I'm sorry," Meredith says.

"Eh, it's okay," he says. "If this hadn't happened, I never would have met Derek and formed the Derek and Stewart Has-bEen Society." Stewart wraps his long arm over Derek's shoulder. Derek snorts. "We like to be known as DASHES, for short, because it's an ironic descriptor of what neither of us can actually do."

"It's good that you can laugh about it," Meredith says.

"If I don't laugh, I cry," Stewart says with a shrug, and Derek smiles. "So, tell me about falling out of a plane. Did you guys really fall out of a plane? I'm starting to think I need to step up my woe-is-me game if I'm ever going to beat you."

"Well, the plane fell, and we fell with it," Meredith says. "It's not like we jumped out on purpose."

"Of course," Stewart says with a sage nod. He brushes his wispy hair out of his face. "That makes all the difference."

"Derek's been shot in the heart, too," Meredith says. "I'm not sure if we've mentioned that-"

"I have?" Derek says. He looks down at his chest with a frown.

"Good lord, man," Stewart says. He goggles at Derek. "You have more lives than a cat."

She looks up at the gray sky, thinking. "I died once .…"

Stewart's gaping at this point. Derek's frowning, too. "Maybe … brain damage was … good," Derek says. "I have no remember of this."

Stewart snorts. "That's the spirit, man. Joke it up."

"Or cry?" Derek replies.

"I vote joke," Stewart says. "Laughing always helps." He snorts. "Meredith and Derek. MAD." And then he guffaws. "MAD DASHES."

Meredith shakes her head. "This is so freaking ridiculous. Really, our life is ridiculous."

"We're MAD," Derek says.

"I'd drink to that if I had a beer," Stewart adds.

All three of them share a look. Seconds pass in a slow march. One, two, three, four, five. And then all three of them laugh, and laugh, and laugh. They're still laughing when Carolyn and Sarah return with the kids.

* * *

Meredith's been waiting weeks for this moment, biding her time. A stroke victim named William Smart checked into the hospital for an appendectomy on Tuesday morning. William can hardly speak. He's limited to a small collection of single-syllable words. Beyond that, he can't communicate by talking, and he can't understand speech, either, not even a little. He has weakness in his right side, but his left is fine. Communication with him is primarily limited to gestures and expressions, like smiles or frowns or nods or head shakes. He's not dumb. Far from it. The only cognitive issues he has are language-related.

She stands over the table under the bright lights, watching Dr. Peters show her what he's learned. This is his second appendectomy in a few weeks. The first one, she coached him through, step by step. This one, she's watching like a hawk, but she's not intervening unless he looks stuck, or like he's about to do something stupid, and so far, neither has happened. Dr. Plank and Dr. Shaw, the doctors she's been torturing since the gala, are relegated to the side of the table, holding retractors and watching their buddy get all the glory.

"Dr. Plank, are you familiar with what's known as a left-side blowout?" she says as she watches Dr. Peters work.

Dr. Plank's eyes narrow, but Meredith can't see his expression behind his surgical mask, can't see if he's frowning. "What does that have to do with an appendectomy?" he says.

Silence stretches in the OR. Even Dr. Peters looks up, wide-eyed.

Meredith glares at Dr. Plank. "The man on this table has a left-side blowout, and Dr. Peters is doing an appendectomy on him. That's what a left-side blowout has to do with an appendectomy." She nods at Dr. Peters. "Keep going, you're fine."

Dr. Peters nods and continues.

"So, Dr. Shaw, tell me about this completely unrelated left-side blowout that Dr. Plank doesn't seem to care about," Meredith says.

Dr. Shaw looks up from the abdominal cavity and gulps. "Uh," she says. "It refers to stroke victims, doesn't it?"

"Yes, I'm glad you know you're operating on a stroke victim," Meredith says, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "Tell me what happens with a left-side blowout."

For a moment, silence stretches. "It's a type of ischemic stroke," says Dr. Peters. "All language processing areas in the left hemisphere of the brain are damaged. The Broca's. The Wernicke's. The arcuate fasciculus. That's why it's called a blowout. There's nothing left."

"Very good, Dr. Peters," Meredith says. "Dr. Plank, what kind of aphasia results from a left-side blowout?"

A long pause follows. "Global aphasia?" Dr. Plank hazards.

Meredith levels a stare at him. "Are you asking or telling me?"

Dr. Plank gives his head a little shake. "Telling. I'm telling. It's global aphasia."

She turns to Dr. Shaw. "And what is global aphasia, Dr. Shaw?"

Again, both tortured interns have no response, and Dr. Peters is the one who supplies the answer. "It's a combo of Broca's and Wernicke's aphasia," Dr. Peters explains. "The patient can't talk, which is the Broca's, and can't understand anything, either, which is the Wernicke's."

Meredith nods. "That's right. Dr. Shaw, Dr. Plank, Dr. Peters shouldn't have to keep saving you. You should know these things. This isn't surgical trivia; this is stuff you should have learned in medical school."

More silence stretches. Meredith gets a slight thrill, imagining their knees knocking under the table. "Dr. Peters," she says, since she knows there's zero chance of Dr. Plank or Dr. Shaw halfway being able to answer this question. "Why doesn't global aphasia usually happen with a **right** -side blowout?"

"Because the dominant hemisphere of the brain is what processes language, and most people's dominant hemisphere is the left," Dr. Peters says.

Meredith nods. "What processes nonverbal information?" she asks the group. "Anyone?"

Silence stretches. Dr. Peters is the one who says, "The non-dominant hemisphere of the brain."

"So," Meredith says, turning to Dr. Plank, "someone with his non-dominant hemisphere intact would be able to understand a smile."

She glares at Dr. Plank, who shrugs. Again it's Dr. Peters who says, "Probably."

"What about if someone is glaring, or yelling?" Meredith says. "Do you think that patient would understand that he's the subject of anger?"

Dr. Peters nods. "Yes, probably."

"So, Dr. Plank," she says. "Let's put all this together, shall we? We'll see if you were paying attention."

Dr. Plank swallows and stares back at her. Meredith doesn't even blink when she says, "Let's say a man suffers a TBI that somewhat mimics a left-side blowout. The worst damage is to his left Broca's area and his left primary motor cortex." She pauses. Lets that sink in. Dr. Plank's eyes start to widen when he figures out where this conversation is going, and to whom she's referring. "Dr. Plank," she prods. "Are you listening?"

"Yes," he says with a too-fast nod that makes her want to smile, but she resists the urge. "Broca's area, left primary motor cortex. Yes."

"Do you think this man would be able to understand when he's being teased?" she says.

To his credit, after thinking for a moment, Dr. Plank says, "Are there any contrecoup injuries outside the Broca's area?"

"Yes," Meredith says. "In addition to the language and motor deficits caused by his primary injury, his family has noted he has light sensitivity, noise sensitivity, distorted processing of certain audio frequencies, longterm memory loss, false memory recognition, intense migraines triggered by stress, fatigue, and an increased tendency for him to become overstimulated in busy environments."

The silence stretches. "Nothing else?" Dr. Plank says.

"Nope," she says, a humorless single syllable where the letter p pops in the tense silence.

"Oh," Dr. Plank says. He looks down at the body on the table that Dr. Peters is so skillfully fixing all on his own.

"So, Dr. Plank, do you think the patient I just described could understand when someone is teasing or insulting him?" Meredith says with an unsympathetic, bored tone.

"I .…"

"Dr. Plank," she says. "I asked you a question."

"Yes. Yes, he … probably could," Dr. Plank admits. "Maybe, not the words, but .…"

"Dr. Shaw," Meredith says. "Do you think this patient has the capability to **care** that he's being teased or insulted?"

"Yes," Dr. Shaw says in a tiny, tiny voice that sounds like a mouse. "Yes … probably."

Meredith leans across the table, closing the distance between them. She wants them looking right in her eyes. She wants them to freaking know that their patients are real people. That's something every surgeon should know. There's no excuse not to. Even Cristina, prickly as she was, had the decency to not insult patients to their faces.

"Tell me, is this patient capable of embarrassment?" Meredith says.

"Yes," Dr. Plank says in a soft voice.

"What about his migraines?" Meredith says. "Given that his migraines are stress-induced, do you think teasing this patient might also cause him delayed but severe physical pain?"

Dr. Plank's as pale as a sheet at this point. He doesn't answer. Dr. Shaw doesn't offer any help, either.

"Who the hell would tease a patient?" Dr. Peters says, because he has no context for any of this, a fact Meredith is glad of. Dr. Peters stops his work for a moment and looks up, takes in the sight of Dr. Shaw and Dr. Plank, and Meredith, who's glaring at them, and says, "I … am getting the idea this is a pointed lesson, and I'll shut up, now." Meredith likes Dr. Peters. She's surprised as hell, doesn't know how he went from being that intern with the stupid cape hair to being her favorite, but he did.

Meredith doesn't let up. "So, what does all this tell you, Dr. Plank?"

"I .…" Dr. Plank shakes his head. He's shaking. Meredith can see the retractor he's holding twitching in his grasp. Score for Medusa.

"I hope you'll keep this lesson in mind next time you two encounter a TBI or stroke patient who you think is too stupid to understand that you both have less compassion than a slab of drywall," she says. She turns to Dr. Peters. "Dr. Peters, you're doing an excellent job." She turns back to Dr. Shaw and Dr. Plank. "Dr. Shaw, Dr. Plank, I want you both to scrub out, now, and get off my service."

She finally lets herself smile as the two of them scramble out of the OR like their hair is on fire. God, damn it, that felt good. And vindicating. And awesome.

"Dr. Grey, I can't remember what to do, now," Dr. Peters says, and Meredith diverts her attention back to the most important thing. Teaching a fledgling surgeon how to be great.

* * *

Derek makes dinner for everyone on Wednesday after rehab when Amelia visits. The dish is some chicken and rice thing. He's cooked it before, and it was happiness in Meredith's mouth. She's pleased to have it again. The kids sit at the end of the table closest to Meredith, Bailey in his high chair, and Zola in a normal seat. She cuts up Bailey's chicken for him, and Derek slices Zola's, albeit with less precision, because he has to use his left hand to cut with.

"Oh, my," Carolyn says when she sees the serving dish and its contents. "Derek, do you …?" She stares at the chicken and rice thing and then looks up at Derek with a tinge of hope in her eyes. "Where did you come up with this recipe?"

Derek shrugs. "I see … chicken … fridge … I know what … agree." After he finishes with cutting up Zola's meal, he passes the plate down the table to Meredith, who passes the meal along to Zola.

Carolyn takes a moment to piece together what he meant. "I taught you this," she says.

Derek pauses, serving spoon frozen in the serving dish. He blinks. "You … do?"

"I did!" Carolyn says. "Do you remember any of that?"

Derek finishes serving himself a plate full of rice. He stares at his plate like he's hoping some sort of meaning-of-life revelation will prostrate itself before him if he waits for it long enough. After a moment, though, he shakes his head. "I .…" He gives his mother a helpless shrug. "No. I have no remember of this."

"I taught you right before you left for college," Carolyn says. "I was trying to impart enough kitchen knowledge to prevent you from starving to death."

"That's right, I remember that, too!" Amelia says, smiling. "You made him cook it … three or four times, I think. Before he left. We kept having it for dinner." She turns to Derek and grimaces. "It was like eating bricks. Don't take this the wrong way, but I was **so** glad when you left. You could **not** marinate a chicken to save your life."

"Amelia!" Carolyn scolds. "Not nice."

Derek shakes his head again. "I … I don't … remember."

"That's okay, sweetheart," Carolyn adds in a soft, warm tone. "I was just curious."

"I gotta say, it tastes much better, now," Amelia says. "At least, the accident did **some** good." And then her eyes widen and she gapes with a _did-I-sa_ _y_ _-that-out-loud_ expression. She reddens, and she hunkers in her seat. "Crap, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Derek, I'm so sorry."

The silence stretches. Derek swallows. "Are you say … say … say … brain damage .…" He stops, and he closes his eyes to think while his mouth works, saying nothing. After several false starts, he manages to add, "Say crash make me better … cook?"

Derek and Amelia stare at each other for a long moment, unreadable expressions on their faces, like they're having some sort of psychic conversation. Meredith frowns. Apparently they come to some sort of agreement, because Amelia hazards a hesitant, hopeful, "I … might be?" in response to his question.

"Amelia!" Carolyn scolds. "Inappropriate!"

"It's … okay," Derek says. He shrugs, and he smiles. "Brain damage … make me like her."

Carolyn gapes. "Derek Shepherd!" Meredith gapes, too. She's seen him joke about his injury, but … only with her. Never with anybody else before.

The corners of Amelia's lips turn up in a tiny smile. "Still got that mean streak, huh?"

"Me?" Derek says, innocent and sweet. "I'm … not mean. Ask … M … Meredith."

"He's not mean," Meredith interjects, not sure where this is going but willing to play on Team Derek, because … Derek's playing. He's playing, to include self-deprecation, and she's never freaking seen him play like this since the accident. Hell, she's never seen self-deprecation from him **ever**. Not like this. Her eyes water. "He's not mean at **all**."

Derek smirks. "See?"

"Her opinion doesn't count," Amelia says. "You've swindled her into liking you."

"What is … swindle?" Derek says. Bailey's having trouble with a chicken piece, so Meredith reaches to help him get it on his tiny fork.

"Trick," Amelia clarifies.

"How can I … swindle?" Derek says. "I have … brain damage."

"Oh, come on," Amelia says with a snort. "You can swindle anyone without a Y-chromosome."

Derek frowns. "What is Y … chr … chr .…" He stumbles over that word and doesn't end up saying it, but he doesn't seem overly frustrated about it, and Meredith continues to watch this exchange with rapt amazement. "What is …?"

"A Y-chromosome," Amelia says, "is what makes a man a man."

Derek looks at Meredith, a question in his gaze. He cups his hand over his mouth like she's seen Stewart do any number of times, and says, "I have this?" in a whisper totally meant to carry.

Meredith grins at him. "Yes, you definitely do."

Derek turns back to Amelia. "You say … I swindle … women?"

"You make a science out of it, Derek."

"For the record, I wasn't swindled," Meredith interjects. She's waving her Team Derek flag, after all. She jabs her thumb in Derek's direction. "He sucks at pickup lines." Which may not be a Team Derek thing to say, but she's getting into the spirit of this sibling sniping. Maybe, she's ditched Team Derek and joined Team Meredith. " **Sucks**."

"I think … brain damage … make this part … worse," Derek says with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

Meredith snorts. God, this is .… This is .… She's not even sure what the hell this is, but she loves it.

"Callie say I can't schmooze anymore," Derek adds, like it's a badge of honor.

"What's schmooze?" Zola says between noisy bites of chicken.

"It's another word for talking," Meredith explains. Which doesn't catch the nuances of the word, but Zola's five. She won't get the intimate nuances, anyway.

"You can't schmooze," Amelia says to Derek, rolling her eyes. "You couldn't schmooze with a rock, now."

"Well, how can swindle, if can't schmooze?" Derek replies, which … is a reasonable point.

"You don't need to open your mouth to swindle," Amelia counters. "Have you looked in a mirror?"

Derek frowns. "Yes … why?"

Amelia takes one look at his sincere, confused expression and laughs. And laughs. And laughs again. "You know … of all the things brain damage has done to you, that's gotta be the weirdest," she says, shaking her head. "I mean, it's seriously **weird**."

"What is?" Derek says.

"Your ego got kidnapped and stuffed in a trunk somewhere," Amelia says.

Derek shrugs. "At least my talk has friend."

"What?" Carolyn says.

"In trunk," Derek clarifies.

Carolyn gapes. "What on earth?"

Derek smiles. "It … okay," he says. He shrugs again. "Laugh, Mom."

"I … Derek …," his mother stutters.

He sighs. "I hate talk," he says. "I **hate** it." He closes his eyes and thinks. His mouth opens and closes. He battles with a word. When that one doesn't work, he thinks again. He manages, "When I talk wrong … it make … angry," he continues. He thinks. "Not today." He thinks and thinks, but it's clear he's not done, so nobody speaks. "Today, I t-t-try to laugh. Okay? I … I … I try."

Silence stretches. Amelia sniffs and wipes away streaks of tears from her face.

"What wrong?" Derek says. "I didn't meaned to make sad. I meaned for happy."

"Nothing's wrong," Amelia says in a warble. "I **am** happy." She beams a thousand-watt smile at him. "Nothing, it's just … welcome back."

"Welcome back?" Derek parrots.

"It's nice to have a stupid big brother to tease again," Amelia says. Her lower lip quivers. Her voice cracks when she adds, "I've **missed** you."

"Yes," Derek says, smiling back at her. He thinks for a moment. "My humor … not in trunk. Today." And then he freaking winks.

Meredith stares at him, jaw agape.

"What?" he says when he sees her looking at him.

Meredith shakes her head and shrugs. "I've missed you, too," she confesses.

He tilts his head as he regards her, a soft, affectionate smile on his face. She remembers that look. _I'm in love with you,_ he said. _I've been in love with you forever._ "H-here … I … am," he says, eyes wet.

"Yeah," she says, a whisper, as her sight blurs. She leans toward him and brushes her fingers through his hair. "There you are." And she kisses him hello.

* * *

"How do I …?" he says, pulling away from her nipple, but he swallows and he doesn't finish his question. He reddens.

"How do you what?" she prods.

"Make you … orgasm." His mouth opens and closes. He thinks. A syllable gets stuck in his throat. She pulls her fingers through his hair while she waits. "On purpose," he decides. "Make you orgasm on purpose."

She regards him for a long moment. He doesn't blink. "You'd have to touch me …," she says.

He frowns as if to say … _I_ _ **am**_ _touching you_. _I've_ _ **been**_ _touching you._

"No, I mean .…" She shifts onto her back so she can spread her legs more easily, and then she takes his hand in hers. He lets her guide him to the cleft between her thighs. "You have to touch me **here**." She gives him a chance to pull away, but he doesn't, so she presses him against her. He takes a deep breath, and she pauses, lets him get used to that.

"Okay?" she says, just to be sure.

He nods.

She traps his index and middle fingers, and she presses them against herself. "Touch me here," she says. "Gently. It's sensitive. If you press too hard, it can hurt."

He watches her, eyes wide and serious like she's given him a bomb to carry. "Touch how?" he says.

"Repetitive, rhythmic motion," she says.

"Rhythmic?" he says. "Like … rhythm?"

"Right," she says. "It means even spaces between each event." She cups his hand and shows him an example. Press. Pause. Press. Pause. Press. "This is rhythmic." She moves his palm to her inner thigh. "Other touch can help, too. Like here." With his hand underneath hers, she strokes herself from the crease of her leg where her thigh meets her groin, down to the midpoint between her groin and her knee. "Or here," she says. She moves him again to cup her. So he doesn't get frustrated, she adds, "But the other touches won't do anything by themselves, usually. Women are a bit harder to get off than men. It can take longer, too."

"Okay," he says. The sheets rustle as he shifts so he's using his thumb instead of his fingers, and he cups her with the rest his hand. "This?"

"Yes," she says.

She relaxes into the massage with a sigh. Like with everything else, he's a fast learner, once he gets shown the basics. She closes her eyes, and she visualizes him. Pretends this is the real deal, and he's pounding into her. He spends some time figuring out what she likes, and she's sure to be vocal with pleased moans to let him know he's found a winner. Circles like ring-around-the-rosy, she likes. Stroking across, kind of like one would pet a dog, she likes. Rhythmic pressure like he's pressing a button – she likes that, too.

When he's too rough, she says, "Too much, too much," and he listens, eases back.

Her body throbs, and her breaths quicken.

"Yes," she says. "Yes, please."

His weight shifts, and he brings his cumulative lessons to bear when he touches her right breast with his free hand, petting, teasing the nipple, and he presses his lips to hers. With his three-pronged approach, it's easy to lose herself in the sensation of being loved, and she lets it sweep her into a fantasy place where he's sheathed himself in her body.

"What is … this?" he says, a murmur against her lips. His cupping grip below tightens, and his fingers slip in what's become a wet, sopping mess.

"That means I like it," she says, eyes closed. "That needs to be there for sex, or it'll hurt me."

"Hmm," he says. He kisses her. Drinks away any other words she might have had stored. "I'm glad you like it."

She has no idea how long it takes for her to find release, because she loses time in his arms, being worshipped by him. He touches what feels like everywhere. Kisses everything.

"How long is normal?" he asks.

"Mmm," she says, gasping when he hits a crescendo and pleasure rolls into her like an unfurling wave. "A while," she says, arcing into him. With a vibrator, maybe five minutes, tops. Without? "Maybe, twenty minutes?" she guesses, though it's hard to think straight when he's doing that. Playing her like a harp. A moan coils in her throat.

He kisses her. "Okay."

Sweat pearls on her skin. Her body flushes. And then she hits that point where she feels like she's losing purchase, and she bleats as the falling sensation starts. She grabs for something. Something to hold onto. Anything. At first, all she scrunches between her fingertips are crumpled sheets, but then she finds his hand, somehow, the one he used to stroke her chest, and she squeezes so hard her knuckles hurt.

She arcs backward, she moans, and her body twitches with abandon against him. This is a quiet orgasm, and it feels like … opening a warm oven on a cold day, or smelling her favorite flower, or collapsing onto the sofa at home after a long day at work. He brings her, keeps bringing her. She tips her head to the side, and she nips him on the shoulder. He laughs, and it's a beautiful sound.

He strokes her hair as the last spasm shakes her, watching her like he's opened the perfect present on Christmas morning or something. His eyes are hooded and heady with desire. She pulls his hand to her lips and kisses the back of his palm.

"Like this?" he says in that velvet, lusty tone that unfurls down her spine.

She swallows, breathing soft and deep and even next to him. "Yes," she says. "Like that." She swallows. "Derek, do you want me to-"

"Can I do it again?" he says, cutting her off. He sounds like he's discovered his favorite roller coaster at the theme park.

She laughs. "If you want," she says. "But give me a minute. It'll be too sensitive down there for a little bit."

He presses into her space. Kisses her lips. Looks down at her. A slow, wolfish smile spreads across his face. "But I can do this, now, yes?" He kisses her again.

"Yes," she murmurs against him. "You can do that anytime."

His gaze is a hungry one when he says, "Good."


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Notes:**

Running behind on feedback replies again, but thank you so much! I promised I'd post this early, today. So hear you go. This is my favorite chapter in the whole story. Hope you like it!

* * *

 **Week twenty-two.**

Derek's mother leaves on Tuesday before lunch, and Derek rides with Meredith to drop Carolyn off at the airport. Derek and Carolyn hug at the edge of the kiss-and-ride lane, sheltered by the door of Meredith's jeep.

"I'll see you soon, sweetheart, okay?" Carolyn says. She gazes over Derek's shoulder to Meredith, who's sitting behind the wheel of the car, still. "You too, dear."

Meredith nods. "Thanksgiving, yes. We'll be there."

"This will be so amazing, having everyone back together after so long!" Carolyn says with a smile. She cups Derek's face and tilts her head as she stares up at him. "I'm so glad you're doing better," she says with thick emotion. "I'm so glad. I love you."

"Bye, Mom," he says.

If his lack of reciprocation bugs Carolyn, she does a great job at not showing it. After giving Derek one last hug, a hug so tight that he grunts, she grabs her suitcase, and trundles it inside the airport. Derek climbs back into the car and fastens his seatbelt.

Meredith glances at her watch. The hospital isn't expecting her for two hours, yet, so she has some time to kill. She's working a later shift today in order to make room for dropping off Carolyn. She thought she'd use this time to take Derek home again, but … an idea strikes her. They're already close to downtown. This is a perfect opportunity.

One of the security guards blows a whistle, urging her to move on, so she puts the Jeep into gear and pulls out into traffic. "Derek," she says, and he looks over at her. "Do you want to …?" She swallows, and she shakes her head. She gives him a grin. "Would you like a tour?"

"A tour of what?" he says.

Her smile deepens. "Of us," she says. "A tour of us."

* * *

Her stomach is rumbly, so she takes Derek to the Emerald City Bar first for lunch. Joe's. It's only 12:30, so, while the bar is open and has patrons, the place isn't nearly as busy as it is in the late afternoon, evening, or night, when doctors looking for liquid comfort after stress come off their shifts.

Derek pauses on the threshold, and he takes in the décor, no recognition loitering in his gaze. His appraisal stops on the dartboard in the back. She wonders if he might remember playing darts with Mark or Burke or Owen or something, but then his assessment continues, and he keeps looking. He pauses his visual cataloguing on Joe, who's working behind the bar and hasn't seen them, yet.

Meredith motions Derek forward, and they sit at one of the hightop tables. Derek rests his cane against the chair back, hooking it over one of the rungs. The air smells like stale beer and old peanuts, and Meredith can't help but inhale. Her nostrils flutter. Derek aside, she has memories here herself, and she watches the ghosts of them dance behind her eyelids.

"Remember anything?" Meredith says when she opens her eyes.

Derek takes one more look, but he shakes his head. "No, I don't," he says. "Sorry."

Meredith shrugs. "Don't be sorry about it. I was just wondering." She smiles. "This is where we met."

Derek's eyes widen. "Here?"

"Yep," Meredith says.

"This is our bar?" he says.

She nods. She points at the bar, at the specific stool where she sat. _I'm always sorry in the morning,_ she can hear herself say in the back of her head. "I was sitting there in a little black dress. I'm not sure where you were to start with." She pauses until he nods. "I ordered tequila." Pause. "You came up beside me in your sexy red shirt, ordered a scotch as a flimsy cover, and then asked me if this was a good place to hang out."

He takes a while with the last sentence, thinking it over, assembling it for himself, but then he smiles like she's given him a treat. "This is a bad pickup line?"

She nods.

"Why?" he says.

"It's just very .…" She frowns, trying to think of a word. "Amateur? The best pickup lines are lines you don't know are lines."

He blinks. "… What?"

Crap. If one has a brain that jumbles words up in a blender, she supposes hearing a sentence with that much repetition might be a bit of an issue. "The best pickup lines," she says, trying to think of a way to reword what she's said, "are … not … so transparent."

"Transparent is see-through," he says with a frown.

"In this case, I mean … undisguised."

"Oh," he says. "Line bad because … you knew … it's … pickup line?"

"Yes," she says. She smiles. "Yes, exactly."

"Do I still have the shirt?" he says.

"The sexy red shirt?" she says. He nods. She thinks for a moment. "I think you do. We can look for it when we get home."

"Meredith, Derek," Joe says as he comes to the table with menus. "I haven't seen you guys here since …." He makes a face like he realizes he's about to step off a conversational cliff, but he recovers with a smile. He adds, looking at Derek, "I'm glad you're okay."

Silence stretches for a moment, before Derek manages a wispy, halting, "… Thank you," that makes it clear he's okay, but not the same Derek anymore.

While Meredith's sure he doesn't mind talking about the fact that he was in a car accident, or even the mechanics of his head injury, she doesn't want his mood spoiled by conversation with someone he doesn't know anymore, and before Joe can dive into the inevitable mountain of well-meaning but irritating what-happened questions, she says, "It's nice to see you, Joe. How's Walter?"

Joe smiles. "Just fine. Thanks for asking. Tequila and a single malt scotch, right?"

"Oh, we're not drinking today," Meredith says. "I have work in a few hours. Maybe, just water?"

Joe nods. "Let me know when you decide what you want, okay?"

"Sure," Meredith says, and Joe putters back to the bar. He bends over behind the bar, and the clinks and clanks of glass hitting glass fill the air.

"I know him?" Derek says.

Meredith nods. "Well, not like a friend, but he's an acquaintance, yes."

"Oh," Derek says.

"You saved his life, you know," Meredith says.

Derek blinks. "I did?"

"Yep," Meredith says. "You operated on an aneurysm."

His gaze shifts to a distant point on the horizon, like he's trying to remember, but, of course, there's nothing. He sighs, and he looks at his menu. This menu has no pictures. "Did we … eat when said … bad pickup line?" he says.

Meredith accepts his subject change in stride. She can't imagine how frustrating this must be for him at times, being told about his life like it's a book he's never had a chance to read. "Yeah, actually. I think we did. Just a nibble."

"What did I … eat?" he says.

She resists the urge to jump and cheer and point out he managed his syntactical kryptonite on the first try twice in a row, because if she were in his position, struggling to get things right despite internal wiring driving him to get it wrong, having a zealous cheerleader point out all her successes outside of practice sessions might make her homicidal. Her heart squeezes, though, and she smiles at him nonetheless. A smile isn't criminal.

"I think the fried artichoke hearts with the aioli," she says.

"I will have those," he says, and he puts the menu down without reading it. He smiles. "This makes the tour more .…" His mouth works, but nothing comes out. He closes his eyes, and he thinks, and he tries again. Nothing. He sighs. "I …. I can't say this word," he admits.

"That's okay," Meredith says. "I know what you mean, anyway."

He winks. "It's good I'm not on .…" He thinks for a moment. "On .…" More thinking, and Meredith thinks he might have run into another traffic jam he can't clear, but he manages. " _Jeopardy!_ " he says like he's spitting out a cherry pit.

She picks up his hand and strokes his thumb. He's running into these moments more and more, lately. Where he knows a word, but he can't say it, rather than not knowing a word at all. It's a twisted sort of progress, she supposes, that his major issues are shifting away from ignorance and into aphasia. She still hurts for him, though.

"You're being pretty good-natured about this, lately," she says.

He smiles. "I'm try … trying … laugh not cry approach."

"Is it working?" Meredith says. "It seems like it's working."

"I get angry," Derek confesses. "But … less."

* * *

Derek's been into Seattle Grace several times since the accident. He lived here as a patient for six weeks after he woke up, but Meredith doesn't count that. That was the twilight period right after Derek opened his eyes, when he wasn't a functional person, yet, just not vegetative anymore. What she does count, though, is Derek's followup appointments with his neurologist. At first, Dr. Wyckoff did them the courtesy of driving to the rehab center once every other week to check in with Derek's progress, but once Derek was mobile enough to get into a wheelchair without too much struggle, Meredith started bringing him back to Seattle Grace for his appointments. At first, once a month. Then every other month. Now, every three months. When they hit the two-year mark, Meredith expects every three months to become every six months, but that's a while, yet, from happening.

Because he's been here so much, Meredith doesn't introduce him to the lobby or anything like that. She takes him straight to OR 1, which isn't occupied at the moment, and lets him look around inside. "This was where we did our first surgery together. A gymnast had an aneurysm that you clipped."

"I don't remember this," he says, and Meredith nods.

She doesn't expect to find a new relationship memory in any of this, anyway. She thinks most of the memories he has of them and their life have been ferreted out, already, since visual triggers tend to be what calls his recollections to the surface for him, and he lives with a constant visual trigger: her. No, she just wants him to see. She wants him to have some context for the stories she tells.

Derek looks at all the equipment. He runs his fingers along the cold metal of the OR table, and he picks up instruments from the tray, being his typical, octopus self. This is a huge-ish sterilization no-no, but Meredith thinks the head scrub nurse, Nurse Bokhee, won't mind just this once, given the reason. Bokhee loves Derek.

The air is sharp with the smell of antiseptic, and the room is bright, so bright Derek squints a little, but he doesn't complain or pull out his sunglasses, so Meredith doesn't comment as he moves around the room, examining everything. Hell, he even takes a moment to peer at the wall and ponder the color or something. When he steps to the head of the operating table and looks down at it like he's a surgeon, he holds his hands in front of him.

A lump forms in her throat when she watches him mimic a running whipstitch on empty air. His right hand makes an imprecise, sloppy mess of the stitch, but his left is sharp and dextrous as always. She wonders how much of his professional life he can recall. They don't talk about it, much.

"Do you know what you're doing with your hands?" she asks.

"No," he says, stopping the motions midair. He flexes the fingers of both hands and stares at the fists he makes. "I don't."

"That's a running whipstitch," she says. "You use that in surgery."

"Oh," he says.

"Do you remember any surgeries?" she says.

"Yes," he says. He frowns. "I don't know what they are. I can't .…" He shakes his head, and he looks at her. "I don't understand the … w-words."

"The medical field has a **lot** of crappy, complicated vocabulary," she says.

He nods. Silence stretches, and he stares down at the table, at the ghosts in his head. "I liked to help people," he says.

"You did," Meredith says. "That's why you wanted to be a surgeon. To save lives."

A smile ghosts his face. "It's a .…" He stops, and he thinks, mouth opening and closing. He crushes a syllable in his throat, trying to utter something. She waits. He stares at the ceiling, mouth working. Whatever it is, he really wants to say it, so she waits, and waits, and she tries not to push or comment, but after sixty seconds of watching him churn, she can't watch him torture himself anymore.

"It's okay," she says. "You don't have to say it."

But he shakes his head at her. "It's a …," he repeats, and he sighs. "It's a … hmm." He shifts from foot to foot, getting more agitated. He wants to. But he can't. He can't say it. "It's a … b-b-b."

She freezes when she hears this newest addition to his attempt. It's a b. She rewinds the moment in her head, thinking about what she said that triggered this frustrating speech attempt for him. Her chest feels like an elephant stomped on it as she stares at him.

She swallows. "It's a beautiful day to save lives?" she supplies for him. "You're trying to say, 'It's a beautiful day to save lives?'"

He sighs, and he nods. "Yes, this," he says. "This, I remember." He gives her a frustrated look. "I … I … I can't say the three word."

Her eyes water.

"Sorry," he says.

"No, it's not sad," Meredith says. "It's not. Just … bittersweet?" She wraps her arms around him. "I'm glad you remember that, at least. Even if you can't say it."

He gazes at her. He brushes the wetness from her eyes with his fingers. "You want to hear me say this? This means a feeling to you?"

"I never thought I would hear you say it again," Meredith said. And, now, she guesses, she won't. "I **never** thought I would."

He smiles. "I try later, then."

"Derek, you don't have to keep try-"

He puts his fingers against her mouth, shutting her up, and the remainder of her sentence gets caught in her throat, a series of nonsensical warbles, much like he sounds when he's stuck. He runs the fingers of his free hand along his scar. "Shooting star," he says without hesitation, a soft rumble, and her eyes widen.

"You couldn't say that before!" she says.

He smiles at her amazement. "The rule change many time," Derek says. "That's why it frustrate." He kisses her. "I try later for you."

* * *

She shows him the elevator last. The elevator where he proposed. They step inside, and the doors trundle shut, muting the raucous sounds of the hospital in this small, closed space. When the elevator car begins to rise, she pulls the emergency stop button, and the car comes to a halt between floors. Derek peers at her with a quizzical expression.

"You proposed to me here," Meredith says.

His gaze searches her face. "What did I say?"

"You told me my dark-and-twisty was a strength, and that I get everybody to move forward." She pauses. "Then you told me you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me."

He closes his eyes like he's trying to imagine. "This is my exact word?" he says.

"No," she says. "I .…" She shakes her head. "You know, there's a lot of things you've said over the years that I remember verbatim, but this isn't one of them."

He laughs. "I ask you to marry, and you don't remember?"

"It's a good kind of forgetting, though, I swear," Meredith says. She kisses him. "You kinda .…" She shrugs. "Swept me off my feet?"

"Hmm," he rumbles. He nuzzles her. His lips press against her forehead. "I'm glad I sweeped you."

She laughs. "I'm glad you swept me, too. I'm all for the sweeping. More sweeping, I say."

He snorts. "What is next on tour?" he says.

She sighs. She's shown him Joe's, their first OR, and their elevator. They have zillions of memories strewn all over the hospital like confetti, but she's covered the big three. The happiest three. And if she tries to show him every piece of confetti in one dose, she might end up giving him a migraine or something, because not all of it is happy confetti – lots of it is angsty, **stressful** confetti, and this has already been a pretty active day for him in a mental sense.

"I'm toured out. I have nothing left to show you." She glances at her watch. They still have a little time. "Is there something **you** want to see?"

He thinks for a long moment, and then his grin stretches wide. "Yes," he says.

* * *

She shows him to the dark OR gallery. Only staff is allowed here, and Derek isn't staff anymore, but no one in their right mind would ever kick him out. He may not work at Seattle Grace anymore, but he's still a hospital legend. She guides him to one of the front seats. He collapses into it with a grateful sigh and rests his cane on the chair next to him. The chair creaks as his weight settles. He peers out over the OR below, eyes shifting this way and that as he absorbs the bustle, very different from the empty OR she took him to earlier.

"They … prepare for you?" he says.

She nods. "Yes, they're getting the patient ready for me."

She glances below. Her patient, Mrs. Wallace, lies flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, still awake. The anesthesiologist chats with her as nurses hook her up to all the monitors and get her comfortable.

"So, this is going to take hours, Derek," she says.

He grins at her. "I know."

"If you get bored, you don't have to stay for the whole thing," she says.

The skin around his eyes crinkles as his smile deepens. "I know."

The taxi fare to get home from here is stupid. Well over $150, not including tip. But Derek's not ready for a bus, yet, and their dwindling savings can absorb the occasional small-ish splurge. She's splurged with Sarah, and Stewart's splurged with Derek in the past to get them to Key Arena when he didn't feel like driving.

"The taxi line is out front," she adds. "You have your wallet, right?"

"Yes, I do," he says.

"You have our address?" she says.

He snorts. "On my license, yes, Meredith."

"Sorry, it's just .…" She takes a deep breath. She shoves away the crushing vise of terror around her heart with iron will. "You're **sure** you're okay going home by yourself?"

"If I call from Idaho, I guess I'm not," he says. She stares at him for a second. At the twinkle in his eyes. And then she bursts out laughing. She leans, and she kisses him, still sniggering. "I'm okay," he murmurs against her skin. "Really." And then as a final reassurance, he adds, "I want to learn this."

He wants autonomy. He deserves autonomy. He's not a kid. Screw her stupid nerves. A lump forms in her throat, and she nods. "Okay," she says. And to warn him, she adds, "I can't really talk to you once I start cutting," she says.

"I know, Mere," he says, the words patient.

"Okay, okay," she says, laughing. She kisses him. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says, since her shift will run past midnight, and he'll be asleep by the time she gets home. "I love you."

He looks at her like she's his newest yellow leaf. Like she's his world in that moment, and the universe revolves around the gallery. "I know," he says, a soft murmur. He kisses her. "I see you soon." A pause. "I hope not in Idaho."

She laughs her way out the door.

* * *

She's about to make the opening cut when she hears the intercom open with a hiss. She looks up at the gallery. A few random surgeons she doesn't know the names of mill about in the chairs, but it's Derek who's standing there, his hand on the speaker button.

"Meredith?" he says, the word filling up the OR, and the rest of the scrub nurses and Dr. Peters look up at him, too. Derek's gaze flicks back and forth at all his observers, and he shifts on his feet. He loses some of his pallor.

"What's wrong?" she says, but he shakes his head at her.

For a moment, Meredith thinks he's cowed himself into not speaking, but he swallows, and he takes a deep breath, and he thinks, and then he says, "It's a .…" She almost drops her scalpel when she figures out what he's doing, but she clenches her fingers so hard it hurts, and the scalpel doesn't surrender to gravity. "It's a .…" He gets stuck for a second, but he pushes through. "It's a … b-b-beautiful … day … to save … lives." When he arrives at the end of his sentence, he sighs like he's gotten home after a long day at work. But then he takes a deep breath and continues. "Have … some." His mouth moves. He thinks. "Fun," he spits out.

He smiles.

Of all the many devastating smiles Derek Shepherd has ever given her, this one is her favorite. The floor feels like it's gone, and her heart squeezes. She blinks away the blur in her eyes, and she grins back at him.

"Thanks," she says. "I will."

And she does.

* * *

They're at the point where she doesn't feel like she's invading Derek's privacy if she steps into the bathroom while he's in the shower. She ducks into the steamy room on Saturday night with the intention to brush her teeth. She swipes her hand against the mirror to clear away the fog on the glass. The air is thick and hot and hard to breathe in.

"I'm in here," she announces. "I'm just brushing my teeth, okay?"

He's tired, and there's a long pause while he parses her sentence. "… Okay," he says.

She squirts a snaking wave of Arm & Hammer onto her toothbrush, swishes the toothpaste-covered bristles under the faucet to wet them, and then she jams the brush into her mouth. She scrubs so hard her body jerks. Her mouth fills with mint.

She's halfway done when he says, "Do you … want .…" Another long pause while he thinks. She waits. "Want … w-want … shower?"

She blinks, and she spits out her mouthful of toothpaste. She glances at the marbled glass of the shower wall. She can't see more than a fleshy blur that tells her a naked body exists beyond. "You're inviting me in there with you?" she says. Just to be sure.

A pause. "Yes," he says. "I … invite."

She rinses off her toothbrush and puts it back in the cup. She smiles. "I'd love to," she says. They haven't taken a shower together in .… She can't even remember. She wonders what he has in mind as she strips off her t-shirt and steps out of her panties. She strides to the shower door, and she pauses, hand on the handle, to say, "You're sure?"

"Yes," he says.

The spray is a hot blast, and she's sopping in moments. He stands under the spray with her, drenched. He blinks water out of his eyes, and he smiles at her.

"Hello," he says.

She rises to her tiptoes to kiss him hello. "Hi," she murmurs against his lips, and then she appraises the situation. His washcloth is wet and hanging on the rack, but she can't tell if it's wet from the spray or wet from use. His hair isn't sudsy. She pulls his hand to her lips and kisses his fingers. No pruned skin, yet. So, he hasn't been here long. She tries to remember when he stopped trying to squint at the late night news and left the room, but she can't. "Are you done?" she says. She gives him a lascivious smile. "Or, do you want me to get those hard-to-reach places?"

He blinks at her. His mouth opens and closes. He steps into her space, pulls her into an embrace. "I …," he says. "I … don't .…" He sighs. Her heart squeezes at the frustrated look on his face. His _I'm-so-done-with-words-right-now_ look.

"It's okay," she says. "We don't need to talk for this." She kisses him.

It takes him a moment to switch gears. From frustration back to desire. She kisses his throat, trying to help him along. She kisses his chin. His mouth. His cheek. Runs her fingers through his wet hair. He gets back into the rhythm when she wanders to his ear and blows against it. He twitches as the air hits him, laughs, turns his head, and captures her mouth. And then he's a fire against her, and she loses herself in the burn.

She finds herself pushed into the cold tile. Her back twitches at the icy feel, but her front is warm and loved and worshipped, and she delights in the contrast. It's like he's ripped her fuck-in-the-shower fantasy right out of her head. The sex part is edited out, and so is the talking, but he perpetrates the rest of it like he's lived it with her, in her memory.

He's **so** freaking good at improvisation.

She arcs back, pressing her body against him. Grinding. Between the remnants of her imagination, the fact that she can hear his figment murmuring, _You've been a bad girl,_ in that velvet tone of his, his touch between her legs, his mouth, the feel of his steel erection trapped between them, she finds herself locking up like she's entering a seizure. Her lungs push air out of her body, and she makes a sound halfway between a moan and a cry. The syllables twist against her vocal cords. She clutches his shoulders, trying to stay upright, and then everything explodes. Twitches race along her limbs, and she finds her breath again after an oblivion that seems to last forever.

She blinks, realizing the only reason she's standing up is because he's got his arms locked around her. She smiles up at him like a drunk. He has that doubtful look on his face again, like he can't quite believe that whatever the hell he saw could possibly feel good. She presses her lips to his chest.

"That feels so good," she says, so he doesn't have any doubt. She drapes herself against him. "Soooo, good."

He swallows. "… Okay."

His grip loosens as she finds her footing. The water pounds around them. They breathe against each other, sharing the space. He seems so … doubting. Unconvinced of the visceral reaction he pulls from her. His erection still pokes her stomach, neglected, and he's making no move to take care of himself.

She swallows. "You can .…" She gestures at him. "I mean, I know you don't want me down there, but … I don't mind. I can even leave, if you want."

He looks at her like she's speaking Greek, but she doesn't think it's because he doesn't understand the words themselves, this time. Just the sentence the words make together.

Steam curls around them. Water pummels them. The tiles. The shower floor.

And that's when it clicks. He's brain damaged. Brain damage can have all sorts of subtle effects on libido, many of them negative. And, brain damage aside, he's nearly fifty. He's not some adolescent boy having wet dreams every night. Or any night, at least not that she's noticed, and she thinks she'd notice, what with the wet part. That, and she's seen him have one before the accident, and she knows he gets a bit noisy. So, no wet dreams. And also with the being nearly fifty thing, he's not finding himself erect every time his pants rustle against him in just the right way. He's got his sex drive, still. The hydraulics clearly work. He likes doing things with her. Loves, even. And she can tell by his hungry stares that he desires her. Her, specifically. But he probably doesn't have an overabundance of testosterone pressuring him into experimenting in his private time. There's a very real chance he has no idea what he's capable of, and her oblique previous references flew right over his head.

"You can do that, too," she says. "Orgasm."

He swallows, but he doesn't speak.

"You want to try?" she says. "Another baby step?"

He thinks for a long moment, and he shifts on the balls of his feet like he's nervous, but he doesn't say no. She holds up her hands. Giving him a hand job might be a bit too big of a step all at once, and she's not sure she can explain to him how to do it for himself, not when he's having so much trouble with words right now, but Derek's never been half as picky about the kind of stimulation he needs to push him over the edge. She's seen him lose himself on nothing but a visual, given a perfect storm of circumstances.

"A **baby** , baby step," she amends. She pulls his washcloth from the rack and soaps it up. "Just say no if this is bad. Okay?"

He swallows. "Hmm," he rumbles. "… Okay."

She steps behind him, giving him sort of faux-privacy, and she starts slow. Soaping down places he's used to being touched by her. His shoulders. His back. The washcloth rasps over his slick, wet skin. She reaches under his arms, around to his chest. And then she works on his abdomen, relishing the flat, hard feel of him. He's nothing but sinew and muscle and skin. No fat. And she's turning herself on all over again by touching him. She rubs him in soothing, rhythmic circles that have him relaxing like warm putty against her in a matter of minutes.

She kisses the space between his shoulder blades. He heaves a big sigh that moves his whole torso. She dips lower with the washcloth. Below his navel. His erection points at the ceiling, and she moves behind it, pressing into the wiry hair at the end of his happy trail, but she's careful not to touch him, yet, except for the incidental touches needed to reach the flesh over his pubic bone behind it.

She moves to his thighs, and his ass. She's touched neither in months, not when they've been naked like this, and she breaches that space in a gradual, glacial way. "Doing okay?" she says.

He takes a while, but he says, "Yes," in a low, throaty tone that speaks of heady arousal.

She re-soaps, and then she slides the washcloth to the inside of his left knee. She pauses there. Waits. And then moves up, and up, and up, inch by very slow inch. His breaths funnel when she's almost to his groin. "Okay?" she says.

He doesn't speak, but he nods.

She moves her exploration forward, into the slick heat between his legs. She pushes her fingers into the washcloth and into the crease of his perineum, and his whole body jerks. He puts a hand out to the tile to steady himself, and his breaths are tight and coiling in his chest.

"Okay?" she says.

Another nod. She lingers there a while. Petting. Stroking. She presses her ear to his back. A deep, deep groan rumbles through his body. And then he steps away. She pulls the washcloth back immediately.

"Done?" she says.

"No," he says without pause.

He turns around to face her, instead. The water thunders, and he stares at her with a dark, hungry gaze. He presses up against her, trapping his erection between them. Another deep, discombobulated groan rumbles through him, and now he's kind of letting instinct take over, because he thrusts against her wet skin. He ruts. He rubs.

She tosses the washcloth away. It lands with a wet slap against the shower floor. She presses the flat of her palm to his navel. She waits, giving him plenty of time to say no. And then she cups him. He doesn't flinch away this time. His lips part, and his eyes lose focus, and she sees the flash of his teeth. "Uhhh," he manages.

"Does this feel good?" she says.

He's panting, shallow, tight little breaths that don't move his chest, just his belly, like his body is twining with a tension he can't escape, and he's losing control of portions of himself. "Hmm. Yes. I .…"

"Do what feels good to you," she encourages. She rubs her thumb across the soft, delicate skin. Not really a hand job. Just a bit of help.

He gasps. His arms tighten around her. He presses his face into her neck. His breaths bluster against her skin. He rubs the head of his erection against the skin below her belly button, rubs like he's scratching an itch. It's an awkward thing, because he's new at this, and he has no idea what the hell he's doing. He's listening to what his body's telling him, and he's running with it, and his body says push forward.

"Just let it go," she coaches. "It'll feel awesome. I promise." She rubs his back with her free hand. A lump forms in her throat – she's surprised at how overwhelmed she feels when she's not even the one in the process of release. The fact that he's giving this moment to her is mind boggling. She's never had this with anyone before. She's never been this special to anyone.

His grip tightens against her shoulders to the point of bruising. And then he freezes. His lower body kicks forward, his arousal twitches, he makes a surprised, nonsensical noise, and then she feels him spilling against her navel. When he recovers from the shock of his loss of control, he licks his lips, swallows, and looks down at himself while he pulses, letting himself watch the moment as much as feel it. Twelve seconds pass. Maybe fourteen. He presses his fingers into the white, sticky mess he's left on her, frowning as he watches the falling water wash it all away.

"That's the piece of you that helped make Bailey," she says.

"Where is …?"

She presses her hand against her womb. "Mine is inside me. Yours is the one that has to travel."

"Oh," he says. He stares, thinking for a long, long time. And then he looks up at her like she's gifted him a revelation.

She winks. "Felt good, huh?"

"Yes," he says, barely audible. He mashes up against her. Pulls her into his arms. His eyes are glassy. He's trembling. "Yes." He swallows. "Yes."

She grins at him. And she kisses him. "It can feel even better than that."

"It … can?"

She nods. "Yeah," she says.

"Sex is better …," he says. Sort of a question. Sort of not.

"Yes," she says. "Sex is **much** better."

He kisses her, and she tips her head to the side, giving him access to her throat. She feels his tongue slide along her jugular. "Is it?" he says, his tone a velvet purr.

"Yes," she says. "We'll get there. Let's just enjoy this part for a while, though, okay? No pressure."

"Hmm," he says. His stunned amazement bleeds away over the moments in favor of a pleased, sated smile. "Yes. Yes, okay."

"Want to dry off?" she says.

He shakes his head. "No," he says. "Stay."

 _Stay,_ he said, months ago, in the crushing grip of a migraine.

This time, though, she can grant his request to stay without hesitation, and in a far more pleasant context. A lascivious grin slides across her face. She's already a puckered prune at this point – so is he – but they stay under the spray until there's not a drop of hot water left, and she replays the whole thing in her head, committing every touch and word and breath to memory.

Being this special, being his "first" love, his best friend, his teacher, his welcome to the world. Being someone he trusts this much. It's a heady feeling, being all those things at once. And she lets herself get drunk on it.

She never, ever, **ever** wants to mess this up.


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Notes:**

All caught up again! Yay! Thank you so much for the feedback, everybody. I guess I should just give up the ghost at this point and say my posting schedule has shifted to Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday evenings instead of Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings lol. But I just know as soon as I admit that the schedule change is official, something will bite me in the ass and prevent me from posting on time. So. Here is chapter 23. Early. It's early. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it :)

* * *

 **Week twenty-three.**

Meredith isn't quite awake yet on Sunday when she rolls out of bed and heads into the bathroom. The door's closed, but it isn't locked, and she isn't thinking about much besides her desire to be back in bed, enjoying her Sunday sunrise in Derek's arms. She's groggy enough that her brain doesn't quite connect the dots right away, but she does see dots. Derek. Standing in front of the mirror, panting. His left hand is wrapped around his cock, and he uses his right to prop himself against the sink. He thrusts against his palm.

"Oops!" she blurts when she realizes what she's looking at. He turns, and their eyes meet. "Sorry!"

She backs out of the bathroom and closes the door, noticing for the first time she did **not** leave Derek behind in their bed. Stupid, she scolds herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She heads into the hallway bathroom to relieve herself.

She should have expected something like this the second she showed him he could orgasm. He's reawakening to the physical aspects of intimacy, and of course, he'd want to explore that a little on his own. He probably woke up with his normal morning erection and decided to have a little fun. She hopes her barging in on him didn't spook him out of wanting to try more things with her later when he's ready.

Crap.

She pads back to the bedroom.

He takes almost ten minutes to come out of the bathroom with his boxer briefs back in place, erection thoroughly deflated, shoulders hunched like he's ashamed, and he's red as a cherry tomato when he does. He doesn't say a word as he wanders to his chest of drawers to pick out a clean t-shirt and pull it over his head like he's adding a barrier. Then, he just stands there, staring at his dresser, shifting from foot to foot, indecisive, like he can't decide whether to flee or not. She watches him pointedly not looking at her for a full minute before she can't take the damning silence anymore. She walks toward him, wraps her arms around his waist, and kisses the space between his shoulder blades over his shirt. She doesn't miss the way his muscles stiffen at her touch.

 **Crap.**

"Please, don't be embarrassed," she says. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

Silence stretches for an interminable moment. "I … f-forget the lock," he says in a quiet, flustered tone. "I'm … sorry."

She frowns. "Sorry?" She expected mortification, but not contriteness. "What the hell for?"

He swallows. He grips the sides of his dresser. He shifts from foot to foot. His skin squeaks against the wood as his fingers flex. "I … I … I wanted to try." The red gets redder.

She blinks. He sounds almost like he thinks he's been caught eating the last slice of her cheesecake or something. Like … his upset isn't just about his privacy being overturned, but … he thinks what he did is … wrong? She has no idea why he would think, that, though. Not when his knowledge of any societal masturbation-will-make-you-go-blind stigma nonsense would have been obliterated on impact, and she's been nothing but a pom-pom-waving cheerleader for sex since he came home.

"That's okay to want to try that," she assures him, though with his closed off, hunched posture, she feels like she's talking to his shoulder more than anything else. "Really. That's normal to do. You don't have to wait for me to be there to try things. Hell, I **want** you to try things."

He turns to face her, a frown on his face. He's silent for a long moment as he regards her. "You … want me do this … without you?" he says, like she's given him an impossible math problem.

She grins and rises onto her tiptoes to kiss him. "Well, don't get me wrong, I'd love to do things **with** you, but that doesn't mean you can't do things **without** me."

He stares at her without speaking, and she thinks she may have given him something a bit too grammatically complex to chew on. Not in the sense of length – he's gotten good at parsing run-ons, even her explosive babble. Just … too many conditionals and stacking negatives. She brushes her fingers through his hair, waiting for some clue from him about what he needs.

"Please … less?" he says. At least, his blush seems to be fading.

"I **love** to do things with you," she says. She waits for him to nod. When he does, she continues, "But it's fine to do things without me." Another nod, so she adds, "Even when we were having sex regularly before your accident, I still did things on my own. I'm sure you did, too."

"You … did this?" he says.

"Sure, I did," she says. "I still do. I did it two days ago while I was in the shower. It's a normal thing. There's nothing wrong with it."

"Oh," he says. He stares at her for a long moment. She's gratified to see his stiff don't-touch-me posture relaxing into something more welcoming.

"Really, it's fine," she assures him. "Okay?"

He nods and steps closer. He presses his nose into her hair and inhales. He kisses her. "I like it more with you," he says in a soft rumble, and her insides tighten.

"Do you?" she purrs.

Another nod. "It's …." He thinks for a moment. His hands wander low against her back. "It's warm … warmer? W-warmer with you."

"I like it more with you, too," she says.

The look on his face is something she could only describe as preening peacock. He smiles. "Good," he says in a low, throaty voice that sets desire alight like kindling.

She bites her lip and grins at him. "The kids aren't up, yet." She peers at him through her eyelashes, giving him her best flirty look. "Want to finish with me what you started?"

His expression sharpens with hunger. "Yes, please," he says, and he presses his lips to hers.

She clutches his t-shirt and dances backward one, two, three, four steps, until the backs of her thighs hit their mattress. His laughter as she pulls him down on top of her is like a fingertip sliding down her spine. She shivers as she splays her palm against his navel.

"May I touch you?" she says. She scrunches her fingers against his skin, so he knows exactly which hand she means, and where. "More than last night. Another baby step."

"Yes," he says without hesitation.

Her body throbs as she nudges underneath the waistband of his boxers, slides her hands down, and cups him. He kisses her. She arches against him. God, he has such a sexy laugh.

* * *

She spends a few hours later in the morning in her office, collating notes and reading journal articles while Derek plays in the living room with the kids. She loses all track of time. When she finishes up and returns to the main part of the house, she stops, and she snorts.

Derek's lying on the sofa, head tipped to the side while he watches a baseball game on mute. He has a towel draped over the side of his head, and another towel draped over his body. The towel on his head covers everything but his face, so he can still see the television. On his stomach rests a tiny black duffel bag that Meredith recognizes from last Christmas.

She took the kids and their truckload of presents to rehab on Christmas morning last year, and they opened all their gifts in Derek's room. He only had a vocabulary of about ten words back then, and he didn't say much, but he seemed to enjoy watching the spectacle, and he seemed to soak up the kids' happiness like a sponge. Meredith marked most of the presents from Santa, but a few she marked as from her and him, despite him having nothing to do with the shopping process. The tiny black duffel bag was one of those, and she can still remember his bewildered look when Zola hugged him and said thank you for her bounty. The bag contained a fake stethoscope, and a small reflex hammer, and a few other odds and ends useful for young, aspiring doctors to play with.

Zola and Bailey stand at Derek's neck. Zola places the diaphragm of her fake stethoscope against Derek's left temple.

"Hmm," Zola says.

"What's wrong, doctor?" Derek says.

Meredith claps her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud and ruining the moment. Zola lifts the stethoscope and shakes her head. "Your brain cut isn't healing," she says. She turns to Bailey. "Scapple, please."

Bailey reaches into the bag, grabs a plastic knife, and hands it to Zola. He nods. "Scappuh," he echoes.

"Can you fix it?" Derek says.

Zola nods. She raises the knife to the towel. "Yes, I think so."

"What if I'm scare of surgery?" Derek says. "Can I have medicine, instead?"

"No," Zola says. "You need surgery. This is a serious cut."

"Yeah, it very bad, Dada," Bailey adds. He rummages through the bag and pulls out the reflex hammer. He bonks Derek on the hip with it. At which point, Derek starts to lose his cool, and he makes an aborted snuffling sound that might have been a laugh if he hadn't managed to tamp it.

Meredith can't stop herself anymore, either, and she giggles. Her two little doctors look up at her. Zola raises her index finger to her lips and says, "Shh! Mommy, I'm fixing Daddy."

"I can see that," Meredith says as she sits down on the floor, back to the sofa, by Derek's head. "I'll just sit here and make sure he gets through surgery all right, okay?"

"Okay, Mommy," Zola says.

Derek's gaze shifts to Meredith, and the skin around his eyes crinkles as he smiles at her. "Hello," he says while Zola saws at the towel on his head with the plastic knife. He grunts as Bailey climbs on top of him, banging various things with the reflex hammer. Bailey's not hitting Derek hard or anything, but Meredith admires Derek's patience with being poked and prodded and climbed on in the name of fatherhood.

"Hi," Meredith says. She turns to Zola. "So, what do you think his chances are? I'd like my husband back in one piece."

"Fifty-fifty, at least," Zola pronounces. "Don't worry. I'm an expert."

* * *

Long after the kids lose interest in fixing Daddy, the clouds outside the house darken, and the wind picks up. The trees outside sway like they're dancing. Meredith frowns when Derek's game cuts out for a quick weather advisory. Heavy thunderstorms incoming. Which … is actually a big deal for this area, because Seattle doesn't get thunderstorms. She can't remember the last one. In fact, now that she thinks of it .…

She puts down her book and turns to Derek. "Do you know what a thunderstorm is?"

He's staring at the television with the strangest expression. A glassy-eyed, groggy look that wasn't there the last time she glanced at him. He doesn't answer her.

"Derek?" she prods.

He looks at her with unfocused eyes. His mouth opens, and he tries to say something, but nothing comes out. Unlike usual, though, he doesn't seem disturbed by his inability to talk, and he doesn't keep trying. He blinks sluggishly and says nothing.

She frowns. This looks like prodrome phase. Except he hasn't been stressed lately that she's aware of, and this morning he was happy and laughing. He's had random migraines before, but none since coming home. When his injury was newer, he had a lot more migraines in general. He still gets lots of random headaches, but she hoped, maybe, the random migraines had gone largely to the wayside as he healed. She supposes not.

"Derek, why don't you lie down for a bit, okay?" she suggests. "Take some pain pills before you do."

He nods in agreement. "Yes," he manages with more effort than a simple affirmative should require. "I don't … feel … good."

He's shaky enough when he stands up that she feels compelled to help him to bed. This is weird. It's just freaking weird how fast this came out of nowhere. She plies him with enough codeine to knock out an elephant, she helps him take off his jeans so he'll be more comfortable in bed, and then she helps him with his earplugs and his mask. He lies down, and, in moments, he sleeps.

She hopes they caught this early enough that whatever's coming won't be too bad. They've experimented with all sorts of abortives, including several flavors of triptans, and nothing seems to work for him. As a result, he's limited to "rescue" drugs. Painkillers. That's it. When he gets a migraine, he's stuck in agony with it until it blows over.

Which sucks.

She bites her lip, watching him sleep. She hates when he hurts. She doesn't want him to hurt. She hopes this one will blow over quickly.

* * *

The rain starts an hour later. Not a sprinkle or a drizzle or a gradual slide into pounding. Rather, it's not raining one second, and the next second, sheets of water slam down like someone's dumping swimming pools on the house. The raindrops smack the roof and the windows with a violent pop, pop, pop that sounds almost like hail, but when Meredith looks at the deck, she doesn't see anything solid landing. Just water.

Zola and Bailey stand at the windows, eyes wide, watching the downpour. A streak of lightning jags across the sky. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

"Mommy, what's that?" Zola says.

"That's called lightning," Meredith says. She crouches next to Zola. "The boom was thunder." She wraps her arms around Bailey and picks him up. "Bailey, did you know you were born in a storm like this?"

Bailey shakes his head.

They all watch the storm together as she tells them the story.

* * *

"Hey," Meredith whispers as she slides into bed. Derek's lying on his stomach with his pillow jammed over the ear he hasn't pressed to the mattress. His sleep mask has rolled up over his face and caught in his messy hair. He stares at her side of the bed from under the pillow through half-lidded, glassy eyes, lips parted, breathing soft and even through his mouth against the sheets like he's sleeping, except he's not sleeping. He's staring. Like he's too miserable to do anything but lie there. Like he can't even bring himself to fix the mask. The rain is a horrible, relentless pounding against the roof, and she thinks the noise might be causing him some suffering.

She gently pulls his pillow away, cups his face with her hand, resettles the mask over his eyes, and pulls her fingers through his hair. "How are you doing? Are you hurting?"

He doesn't speak, and she bites her lip. She's not immediately concerned. She loaded him up on codeine, which is a narcotic that tends to bliss people out a bit.

"Derek, can you talk? Anything? Any word?"

"… Yes," he manages.

"Are you hurting?" she repeats.

He turns away and raises a hand to the side of his head where his injury happened. He presses against the bone there and rubs in a slow circle. "Yes," he says. "Please, no talk." And then he yanks the pillow over his head again.

She flips off her lamp. "Sorry," she says. She scoots close to him. She slips her palm under the hemline of his shirt, and she rubs him along the spine in slow, soothing strokes. She's not sure how long she does that before she falls asleep.

* * *

A crack of thunder like a gunshot wakes her up, and her eyes snap open to Derek's answering sound of misery. She still has her hand up Derek's shirt. The storm migrated over the course of the night. That thunder sounded like it was right above the house.

Lightning snakes across the sky. Thunder booms without delay, so loud she feels it in her chest. Derek clutches his pillow over his head, and he tenses in her arms. His breathing's shallow and raspy.

"Mommy!" she hears, a loud wail through the house, followed by a second wail, farther off down the hall, and she winces. Crap. Another peal of glass-rattling thunder cracks through the house, and Derek makes an agonized moan. For a moment, Meredith is caught in a state of paralysis, unsure what to deal with first or how to handle her entire family melting down at once. The kids, it seems, don't want to wait for her to make a decision, though, because both of them are crying, now, and the sounds of both sets of hysterics approach the bedroom door.

Meredith rubs Derek's back along his spine once and whispers, "I'll be right back." She pulls her hand free from his shirt and slides out of bed. She's greeted with two crying children who fly past Meredith's legs into the room the second the door's open.

"Mommy, I 'cared," wails Bailey, clutching his big, billowing security blanket.

Zola doesn't have any words to offer, just sobs. Derek moans from the bed and claws at his pillow, trying to pull it tighter, which only prompts a weeping, "What's wrong with Daddy?"

Meredith picks Bailey up and settles him against her hip, and she grabs Zola's hand, and heads back out into the hallway with them. She makes a stop at the board game pile, grabs the top box without even looking to see what it is, and heads back to Zola's room with both of them. She flips on the light, squinting in pain while her eyes adjust, and she sets Bailey down on Zola's bed.

"Guys, I know this is super scary, but I promise, everything's fine," Meredith says. "I promise, okay? I'm not going to let anything happen. We're safe in the house. Thunder won't hurt you."

Another clap of thunder shakes the house, and Zola's sobbing renews.

"I want you do something for me," Meredith says. "Can you guys do something for Mommy?"

"What?" Bailey says miserably.

Meredith sets the board game down on the rug for them. Candy Land. "I want you guys to play Candy Land, okay?"

She helps them take the board game out and set it up. Zola wipes her eyes and tries to focus. "Will you play, too, Mommy?" Zola says.

Meredith shakes her head. "I have to help Daddy, but I'll be right down the hall. I won't even close my door, okay?"

"What wrong wif Dada?" Bailey says.

"He's fine, but he needs some help," Meredith says, and she stands.

"No, Mommy, please don't leave! Please, don't leave!" Zola begs, and she makes a grab for the hem of Meredith's lounge pants, almost yanking them off in the process.

Meredith closes her eyes and counts to ten in her head. There's no winning this situation. She swallows, weighing her options. Derek's not in any shape to ask for help if he needs it, so she can't leave him. Which means she either has to leave the kids alone to devolve into hysterics again, or she brings them back to the master bedroom, and then Derek suffers. Either way, somebody suffers.

"If I let you guys play in my bedroom, you have to be quiet," Meredith says. "Daddy really needs quiet. This thunder is hurting him. Do you understand?" Thunder cracks, and lightning brightens the house like it's daylight. Both kids flinch and huddle closer.

"I be quiet," Bailey says.

"Promise," adds Zola.

Meredith leads them back into the master bedroom. She takes Derek's nightstand lamp and sets it on the floor by his side of the bed, below mattress level, in hopes that it won't disturb Derek when it's lit. He's wearing his mask, he's clutching a pillow over his head to block out the noise, and his back is to the lamp, so she thinks the lamp will be okay like this. She flips it on, watching Derek for any signs that the lamp is adding to his misery, but he doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. She helps the kids set up the board game again in the space between the mattress and the wall.

The room lights up. Another crack of thunder follows. Derek makes a sound like someone is stabbing him in the gut, and it's awful to hear. Meredith can't imagine feeling it.

"What's wrong with Daddy?" Zola says in a warbling, upset voice.

Meredith strokes Zola's hair. "The thunder hurts him. You need to be quiet, okay?"

"Okay," Zola says in a tiny, tiny voice, and the kids start to play their game, looking shellshocked and terrified, and every time Derek moans, they look worse, but there's nothing Meredith can do about it except play with them and try her best to keep them calm. Meredith keeps her right hand on the mattress, resting against Derek's shoulder blade to show him she's there, since that's the nearest piece of him she can reach, and she plays the game with her left hand.

"Mommy?" Zola whines in time with Derek's moan after the next clap of thunder.

Meredith sighs. "Everything's fine, Zozo," she soothes, a whisper. "I'm not going anywhere. But you need to be quiet for Daddy."

"Okay," Zola says.

Derek's curled up under his blankets in the fetal position. Every time the thunder cracks, he makes a noise like he's being whipped raw or something, and Meredith feels sick. She feels sick listening to it. God, this is awful. This is freaking awful.

After what feels like eternity of shushing the kids almost every game turn, of listening to Derek suffer, he throws the pillow away from his head and wobbles to his feet before she can react to stop him. He misses tripping all over Meredith, the kids, and the game, by a matter of centimeters. He peels off his sleep mask, only to hiss and turn away from the lamplight bleeding into the air. He claps his hands over his eyes like he's just stared at the sun.

"What are you doing?" Meredith says, a harsh whisper.

He flinches like she's shouting at him, and he doesn't answer.

"One second, guys," she tells the kids, dropping her game piece.

"Mommy!" Bailey whines, but she can't spare him any more thoughts or comfort at the moment, because Derek's swaying like a drunk, and he looks like he's about to plow face first into the carpet.

She scrambles to her feet to stand beside him, and she wraps her arm over his waist to give him balance. He takes three shuffle steps toward the bathroom, and she finally understands what he's shooting for. She helps him a few more steps. The room lights up, and thunder shakes the house. He makes a gasping, breathy noise, and he falters for a moment. He holds onto her shoulder with a shaking death grip. Meredith winces, but she doesn't complain.

He wobbles another few feet. He's almost to the bathroom. Another crack of thunder rattles the walls. He makes the weird, gasp-y, breathy noise again, his eyes roll back into his head, and he topples. She can't do much more than make sure he doesn't hurt himself on the way to the floor.

"Derek," she says, heart throbbing with panic.

"What wrong wif Dada?" Bailey demands. "What wrong?"

"Bailey, I need you to be quiet right now," Meredith says. "I promise, everything's fine. I promise."

"But Dada-"

"It's fine," Meredith snaps, and Bailey starts to whimper. Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap, **crap**.

"Derek, wake up," Meredith hisses. She's never seen him faint from migraine pain before. She pats his cheek, trying to draw him back to consciousness. He's only been out for thirty seconds when he groans and blinks.

She brushes her fingers through his hair and gives him a lying smile that she knows doesn't reach her eyes. "Hey," she says in a soft voice. "You fainted, Derek. Don't try and sit up, yet. You're fine. Everything's fine."

He stares at her with glassy eyes that speak no recognition, and a cold sliver of fear slips behind her heart. Another flash of lightning and a peal of thunder. The lightning makes the room bright like sunlight, and the lamp-rattling thunder is the second punch in a vicious one-two knockout. He chokes. After nearly a decade of being a doctor, Meredith reacts on reflex. She rolls him onto his side, until his nose presses into the carpet, and the choking becomes vomit. When the spasms ends, he just lies there, the side of his face resting in the puddle like he has no idea what the hell happened and doesn't care because he's so freaking sick.

"Derek," she snaps, yanking him away from the reeking puddle, trying to ignore the realization that she feels like she's lugging a dead body. "Tell me a word right now. Any word."

He looks at her with those scary, glassy eyes, and he doesn't speak.

He gets nauseated, but she's never seen him vomit from a migraine. He gets dizzy, sometimes, too, but she's never seen him faint. For all she knows, this is a stroke masquerading as a migraine. Derek's TBI makes him somewhat of a stroke risk. Head pain, blurry vision, confusion, loss of speech, dizziness, every single symptom he's had today doesn't just say migraine. It says stroke, too. Or, hell, a brain bleed. It says lots of bad, bad things that aren't migraines. And he hasn't been stressed out, lately. He's been happy. There hasn't been a migraine trigger as far as she knows.

She doesn't wait another second. She calls 911. And then she calls Sarah.

* * *

With every crack of thunder, he flinches in her arms, and the sound he makes is an awful one that will haunt her. All the while, she has to contend with crying and questions from both hysterical kids, who, at this point, refuse all of her attempts to calm them down, because Daddy is a sick, vomiting, moaning, unresponsive lump, thunder is terrifying, and Mommy's placating assurances that everything is fine are wearing thin with three- and five-year-old intellects.

Derek still hasn't spoken a word by the time the ambulance gets there, despite her repeated prodding. She leaves him and the kids for a moment to answer the door, and two storm-soaked paramedics step into the foyer. Derek's too sick and in too much pain to be anything but pliant when the paramedics load him onto the stretcher, but Meredith can't escape the sinking feeling that he's terrified.

Who wouldn't be? She's pretty sure none of his occupational therapy sessions have covered what happens when paramedics pick you up during an emergency, and he can't even speak to ask questions. She touches his face before they take him away, she strokes his cheek, she smiles at him, and she promises everything will be fine, and she'll see him again soon. She has no idea if he understands her, or recognizes her, or **anything**.

She asks the paramedics what hospital they're taking Derek to. They say St. Mary's. And then they run the stretcher out into the rain toward the waiting ambulance.

* * *

Stewart's at home with all the kids. Meredith dropped them off. She dashes into the ambulance bay at St. Mary's with Sarah before Derek's even been triaged, and Sarah, who's good friends with the chief resident in the ER, helps get Meredith in to see Derek while he's waiting for an available doctor.

Derek's lying on his back, wrapped in fuzzy thermal blankets and strapped down on a gurney, resting behind a curtain in the bustling ER. His eyes are closed, but he's too rigid to be asleep. "Hey, I'm here," Meredith whispers as she pulls up a rolling stool next to him. His hands are trapped in blankets, but now that she's closer, she can see he's trembling – his whole body – and she feels awful for him. He's been ripped from his home by strangers, he's immobilized, he's in pain, he can't speak, and he probably has no idea where in the hell he is or what's going on ….

His eyes open to slits when she puts her hand on his face. "Hey, I'm here," she repeats. He doesn't look at her, just stares at nothing. "I'm here. Derek, you're in the hospital. I'm worried something serious might be wrong with you, but I'm here, and nobody here is going to hurt you. This is to help you. There's nothing to be scared of. I promise. Okay?"

When he doesn't speak, she's renewed in her conviction she wasn't freaking out over nothing. This is a real emergency. She has no idea if he's even understood her. He's still shaking, and he's white as the sheet he's lying on. What disturbs her the most, though, is that he's not making any noise. When he's having aphasia issues, but he's trying to talk, his struggle is an audible war in his throat, and even when he can't say words, he can still make all sorts of intentional but unintelligible noise. He can moan and yell and whimper and anything in between. This dead silence tells her he's not even trying, which is freaking scary.

"Derek, can you understand me?" she says. "Blink twice for yes."

His gaze shifts to her, so he heard her, which is a relief. Then he blinks, but only once, which erases said relief. She pushes her fingers through his damp hair.

"I'm here," she repeats. "There's nothing to be scared of. I promise."

She doesn't have a chance to say anything else to him, though, because one of the ER doctors strides in through the curtain, carrying a clipboard. The man peppers Meredith with questions until her throat is raw from ejecting rapid-fire, stressed responses. Having this interrogation session over a silent, prone, trapped, frightened Derek is unnerving and surreal and awful. And then, though he's very polite about it, the doctor kicks Meredith out of the cubicle.

Meredith stands in the space beyond the curtain, shellshocked, trying to listen to what's going on with the doctor and Derek. Minutes later, the ER staff wheel a still-silent Derek away through some double doors. And then Meredith's alone.

* * *

Sarah and Meredith sit in the waiting room at St. Mary's. Meredith hasn't seen Derek since the doctors rushed him out of the ER for tests.

She glances at her watch. 3 a.m. How is this happening? How the hell is this happening?

She puts her head in her hands while Sarah rubs her back and says soft, soothing things in her ear like, "I'm sure everything's fine. I'm sure Derek's fine. I'm sure we'll hear back soon," but none of it helps, because Meredith knows how the universe works. As soon as she's happy and thinks she has nice things, they get taken away, and the universe has been trying very hard to take Derek away for over six years, now.

"What if he dies?" Meredith says.

Sarah wraps her arms around her and hugs her. "He's not going to die. He'll be fine. Do you want me to sneak up and check on him? I'd sneak you up, too, but I'm still new here. I'd get in trouble."

Meredith rubs her eyes. "Please, would you?"

Sarah nods and stands. "I'll be right back," she says. She takes off at a jog toward the elevator, her sneakers squeaking on the shiny floor tiles as she moves.

And Meredith waits.

* * *

She's almost made herself dizzy with worry when Sarah squeezes her shoulder. Meredith flinches and looks up with bleary eyes. "He's okay right now," Sarah says without preamble. "They gave him sumatriptan-"

"Triptans don't **work** for him," Meredith snaps. "They make him feel **worse**." Like someone is sitting on his chest.

"I know, but once they ruled out stroke, they wanted to try, anyway. They have him on morphine, alprazolam, and ondansetron, too, so he's a lot more comfortable, now. They finished the CT, and he's getting a spinal tap to help rule out meningitis."

Meredith nods. "He's not hurting anymore?"

Sarah gives her a sympathetic look. "No painkiller's perfect, Mere, but he's better, and he's not throwing up anymore."

"Is he scared?"

Sarah shakes her head. "He's awake, but he's heavily sedated. I said hello, and I told him you were in the waiting room, but I'm not even sure he heard me."

"Did he say anything?"

Sarah shakes her head. "No," she says. "Emphasis on the heavily sedated part."

Meredith swallows. "Nothing at all? Not even a moan?"

"No, but that could mean **anything** , Mere."

"Could it mean anything good?" Meredith says, tone nasty. She doesn't mean to be mean, but she's tired, and she's dizzy, and she doesn't want the universe to take Derek away from her. She swallows and swallows and swallows again, because if she doesn't, she thinks she might throw up. "Why does this keep happening to me?"

Sarah stops talking at this point, and she switches back to hugging, instead.

* * *

Not a stroke. Not meningitis. Not a new brain bleed. Nothing.

Meredith stands in the hallway at 5:30 a.m. with Derek's appointed doctor, a neurologist named Dr. Walters. He's an older, silver-haired man in his sixties, with a round, kind face, sharp whiskers, and a bulbous nose.

"I think this was just a bad migraine," Dr. Walters says in a calm, rich, deep voice that reminds her of a movie trailer announcer. "You were right to be concerned, though."

"But this is the worst I've ever seen, and there was no trigger," Meredith says.

"We're in the middle of a huge thunderstorm," Dr. Walters says. "That's a trigger for a lot of people."

Meredith blinks. She knows about weather-related headaches. Seriously, does this guy think she's a moron? "Seattle gets rain all the freaking time – we **live** in rain town – and he's never gotten a headache from it before."

"Yes, but we don't get many cold fronts, which is what causes the lightning," Dr. Walters says. "Cold fronts result in a rapid pressure change that's hard for the body to keep up with. Totally different than Seattle's _modus operandi_."

Meredith thinks back. Crap. "He did start feeling bad right around when it started."

"There you go, then," Dr. Walters says.

"Wait," Meredith says. "Wait, we were going to fly to New York for Thanksgiving. If rapid pressure change does this, is he going to be able to fly?"

Dr. Walters frowns. "Given that you haven't found an abortive that works, I don't recommend trying it, unless you consider the trip worth another migraine like this."

"And what about the not talking thing?" Meredith says. "Has he talked?"

"No," Dr. Walters says, "and that's why I want to keep him here for observation for a few more hours."

"So, you don't know what's causing that?"

Dr. Walters gives her a sympathetic smile. "Dr. Grey, I think Dr. Shepherd is over-sensitized, very sick, and very stoned, and I think talking might be a bit too much for him right now. For now, we just need to let him rest and keep an eye on him while we wait for the last few tests. Okay?"

"It's really just a migraine?" Meredith says.

Dr. Walters nods. "As far as I can tell, it's really just a migraine."

"Okay," Meredith says. "Okay." She takes a deep breath. "Can I see him, now?"

* * *

Derek's resting in a dark, private room with his eyes closed. He's covered in a blue thermal blanket. Between the intravenous line, and the hospital gown, and the blanket, and his lack of reaction when she comes through the doorway, the memory of finding him "brain dead" after the accident crushes her like a falling plane. For a minute, she can't breathe. She can't breathe, and she looks away. She almost runs into Sarah, who's carrying two styrofoam cups full of coffee.

"Oops!" Sarah says, and she hops back a step. The coffee sloshes in the cups. She takes one look at Meredith, and her expression creases with concern. "Oh, honey, what's wrong?"

"This is how I found him after the accident," Meredith says. "This is how I found him right before I had them pull the plug. This is-"

Sarah sets the coffee cups down on the end table. "Shh," Sarah says, and she pulls Meredith into her arms. "Shh, it's okay. He's fine. He's not brain dead. He's just sleeping." She guides Meredith to Derek's heart monitor. She points at the sinus rhythm. "See? Heart's beating." And then she points to Derek's face. "No ventilator. Just a cannula. Everything's fine. Okay?"

"Okay," Meredith whispers. She swallows. "I don't know how many more times I can do this."

"Do what?" Sarah says.

"Be fine while my life falls apart."

Sarah smiles. "You don't have to be fine right now. You want to cry? Cry away. I won't tell anyone."

"You promise?" Meredith says.

Sarah pantomimes a zipper over her lips. She wraps her arm over Meredith's shoulder, and she guides Meredith out of the room, leaving Derek behind to sleep.

"The coffee …," Meredith says as they pass by the table.

"Forget about the coffee," Sarah says. She pulls them into a small, empty break room with a couch. She sits, pulling Meredith down with her. And then she hugs. "Cry if you want."

Meredith sniffles. And she swallows. And then she loses it.

"I know it's easy to fixate on the bad," Sarah says in a soothing voice while Meredith snivels. "Just remember, good things happen, too. You have a nice house, and a great job, and lots of friends who love you. You have two beautiful children. Your husband survived a horrific car wreck, and he's okay. He has a migraine right now, but he's still okay, and he'll probably come home tonight. He's okay, Meredith. And this weekend, you and I are going to a club, and we're going to dance this out until we're dizzy. Drinks are on me."

"He's okay," Meredith says, a croaky whisper.

"Yep," Sarah says. "He's okay."

"He didn't die."

"No, he didn't," Sarah says.

"He's fine."

Sarah's embrace tightens. "He's fine, Meredith. Everything's fine."

* * *

When Meredith regains her composure, she heads back to Derek's room, and Sarah makes another coffee run. Derek's still sleeping, but his breaths are so shallow he looks … almost dead. She stuffs a swell of panic back into her mental trunk. He's not dead. He's not. He's **not**.

In addition to morphine for his pain, the hospital has been keeping him loaded on alprazolam for his anxiety. Oh, who is she kidding? Abject terror would be a more accurate description than anxiety. The paramedics taking him from his home was bad enough, but then he had to endure being poked and prodded by a bunch of doctors he doesn't know in a hospital he doesn't recognize and subjected to a bunch of tests he doesn't understand, anymore. The fact that he's in enough pain to need morphine makes her sad, but the idea that he was so scared he needed sedation is what breaks her heart. At least, he can sleep. The one benefit to being drugged to this degree.

She settles into the chair beside his bed and tries to calm herself down, but she can't. His heart monitor with the beep, beep, beep is like the telltale heart or something. She can't relax like this.

Instead, she crawls into the bed with him. She doesn't fit well, and her back smashes against the bed railing, but she needs this. She rests her ear against his breastbone, and the beep, beep, beep is accompanied by a quieter thump, thump, thump that she needs to hear.

His breathing changes, and she looks up to see him half awake, which is even better than hearing the thump, thump, thump. She pushes her fingers through his hair. "Hey," she says, a croak, and he looks at her with cloudy, vacant eyes. "Hey, you're okay. We're at the hospital. You don't have to say anything right now if it's too hard. I just … I'm here." She needs to be here. "Okay?"

Of course, he doesn't answer. But he does move. She can't tell from his face whether he recognizes her, but he wraps his left arm over her shoulder, pulling her close. Maybe, he can't talk right now, but he knows who she is, and that's the important part.

His eyes drift shut. She stares at the intravenous drip taped to the back of his hand. His body is warm, and he's breathing on his own, and his heart's beating, and this is not like before. This isn't. She falls asleep to the thump, thump, thump.

* * *

The chirp of her cell phone pulls her out of a sound sleep less than an hour later. She lifts her face off Derek's chest and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and she rubs her eyes. She's drooled on his hospital gown. A wet spot the size of a silver dollar covers his chest. She drags the phone to her ear.

"What?" she says, more of a harsh rasp caused by exhaustion than speech.

"Meredith?" says a familiar, female voice. "Where is everybody? The house is empty."

Meredith sits up straight. "Melody!" she blurts. "Oh, my god; I'm so sorry." And then she winces, realizing how loud she's just spoken. She glances at Derek. He seems undisturbed. She climbs out of Derek's bed and tiptoes out into the hallway, so she can explain to her nanny what the hell happened.

* * *

"Hey," Amelia whispers as she slips into the dark hospital room in the mid-afternoon. "We're here. Owen's parking the car."

Derek's not sleeping and hasn't been for a while, but he's so sedated he's been staring through half-lidded eyes at a fixed point on the ceiling for several hours. Meredith's not sure how much he's even perceiving right now. They have him so baked, the nurses keep checking on him what feels like every five minutes to make sure he's still breathing enough.

Meredith wipes her tired eyes and gives Amelia a dull expression. "Hi." Meredith's so exhausted she's convinced she hallucinated Sarah visiting on her coffee break a few minutes ago. "They want to release him as soon as the last test comes back, and he comes out of the sedation enough to not need monitoring," Meredith says. She stands, only to sway and almost fall back into the chair. A black curtain oozes across her view field like an oil slick.

When she regains her senses, Amelia's moved across the room and has her arms wrapped around Meredith in a tight bear hug that makes it hard to breathe. Meredith clutches Amelia's shoulders to keep herself from slipping to the ground. She squints at her watch, but she can't see the numbers.

"I'm sorry," Meredith croaks. "I haven't slept more than an hour in … uh .…" She shakes away some mental fuzz, only to have it recollect like a dust bunny. "Will you guys help me take him home? I don't think he'll be able to walk, and I can't lift him by myself." She blinks. She's so exhausted she feels drunk. "Actually … I don't have a car. I think … Sarah .…"

"Don't worry about that," Amelia says with a dismissive wave. "Why don't you sit?"

"Okay," Meredith says. She's much too tired to protest handing the reins to someone else for a little while. She'll close her eyes. Just for a moment. Just for a .…

* * *

When the last test result comes back, Derek's malady is confirmed to be "just a migraine," and he's marked for discharge. The hospital releases Derek at around dinnertime with a prescription for enough morphine tablets to get him through another thirty-six hours, and a longterm prescription for ondansetron. The rain is still pouring. Derek's still in morphine-muted agony.

Between Owen, Amelia, and Meredith, they manage to stuff Derek into the back seat of Owen's car. Meredith trots to the opposite side of the stuffing, yanks open the door, climbs in, and pulls Derek against her rain-spattered body. He's awake, sort of, enough to curl against her and press his face into her neck to block out the last wisps of waning daylight. She puts her palm over his eyes to help.

"I don't suppose you're talking yet, are you?" Meredith says. A cold knife of worry slips between her ribs into soft innards when he doesn't reply. "Please?" She hates to bug him, but the longer he goes without even trying to make noise, the chillier the knife feels. She tries to tell herself he's stoned and doesn't have the wherewithal right now to speak, but the cold knife isn't listening to logic. She pulls her fingers through his hair, swallowing against a lump in her throat when he doesn't respond. "Derek?" At this point, she'd be happy with a hand squeeze. Just something to let her know he's capable of interpreting what she's saying, but he offers nothing to her.

She blinks. Her eyes water. She sniffs and sucks in her grief. She'll cry alone. She'll cry with Derek. She'll even cry with Sarah in a perfect storm. But she's not a crier. She doesn't snivel in the presence of other people. She's strong, and fierce, and she doesn't freaking cry.

The car wobbles as Owen and Amelia climb into the driver's seat and the front passenger seat, respectively. The atmosphere in the car is quiet. Morose. Owen turns the key in the ignition. The motor hums.

They go home.

* * *

The rug is stained with vomit, and the whole bedroom smells. The abandoned game of Candy Land, cards and game pieces strewn like confetti, remains on the floor by Derek's side of the bed. The covers are rumpled. The lamp remains on and half-tipped against the nightstand's bottom drawer.

She's so tired, the mess pushes her into a frozen state of non function. He almost left, says the silent chaos. He almost left. He almost **left**. She hears Owen and Amelia mumbling behind her. Shuffling noises. Her awareness dims like a flashlight running out of batteries.

"-eredith." She blinks. "Meredith!"

She looks at the hand squeezing her shoulder, follows the sight of the hand to a wrist, a forearm, an elbow, a person. "Amelia," she says, tone hoarse and flat.

"I'll take care of this, okay?" Amelia says, gesturing to the rug.

Meredith glances at the bed. It's empty. Her heart squeezes. "Where's Derek?" she says, disturbed by the sharp glint of panic sparking at the edge of each syllable.

Amelia regards Meredith with narrowing eyes, but she doesn't comment except to say in a quiet, soothing voice, "We put him in the guest room, so we could clean in here. Why don't you join him?"

"But … I have to … call … people," Meredith says.

"Who?" Amelia says.

"Melody to cancel the week. Stewart to ask if he can keep the kids for a few days. Hospital to call in sick-"

"I'll take care of it," Amelia says. "If Stewart can't take them, Owen and I can." She snorts. "And I think Owen probably got the sick-leave memo with his keen powers of observation. No need to call in."

"Oh," Meredith says.

Amelia gently turns Meredith toward the door. "Get some sleep. Okay? You look like you're coming out of a bad bender."

Meredith swallows. She doesn't have the energy to reply anymore. She walks to the guest room, a zombie.

* * *

She thinks Derek's already partaking in chemically-assisted slumber when she steps into the guest room. The shades are drawn. He has his mask on. He lies sprawled on his back like he fell backward onto the mattress and didn't have the energy to rearrange himself before sleep. He doesn't move or give any indication he's heard her enter. She climbs into bed with him. His body has made the covers warm for her. She rests her ear against his chest, and she listens to his rasping, even breaths.

She's needed this since … yesterday. Quiet, private time with him to reassure herself that he's alive, and he'll be okay. Maybe, not now, but by this time next week, he'll be back to his shy, taciturn, sweet, humble, funny, green-loving, beer-hating, optimistic new self.

She scrunches his shirt in her fingers. She's so tired she can't function anymore, but for some reason, her brain doesn't want to shut down. Her body doesn't want to ease out of the fight part of fight-or-flight.

Which is why she's awake to be shocked when his arm snakes around her and pulls her closer. A lump forms in her throat. "Hey," she whispers. She raises her head off his chest to look at him. "Hey, how's your pain? Can I get you anything?"

For a long moment, he doesn't move, doesn't react, and she thinks, maybe, he didn't wake up after all. That him reaching for her wasn't a conscious thing. But then he lifts his hands and shows her seven fingers.

She frowns, not sure what he means, and then it hits her. Seven. On a scale of one to ten. He responded to her question. He's not talking, not trying to talk, but he heard her. And he understood. And that's so much better than the unresponsive lump he's been for the past almost twenty-four hours. The softball in her throat gets bigger.

She squints at her watch in the darkness. Hers isn't digital like Derek's fancy schmancy one, and it doesn't light up. She can't see jack. She takes his wrist and hits the nightlight button on his. His arm and hand are pliant in her grasp. The time reads 6:53 p.m. Close enough to the right time to give him another dose of morphine.

Amelia or Owen left Derek's pill bottle on the nightstand. Meredith slides out of bed and goes to grab a paper cup and fill it with water in the bathroom. She helps him sit up to take the pill.

And, at last, she sleeps in his arms.

* * *

On Wednesday morning, Derek's not in pain anymore. Well, not much. Instead of needing potent, mind-altering narcotics to control his pain, he's happy with a mix of acetaminophen and ibuprofen. He's groggy, and listless, and when she asks him simple questions, he takes long, long stretches of time to indicate his response. He still doesn't talk, though, and Meredith's trying very hard not to be concerned. She leaves him alone to sleep.

* * *

Forty-nine hours. That's how long this migraine lasted, and Meredith is angry. Furious.

For the first time in a long time, she's **furious** at the doctors who screwed up Derek's care after his accident, because it isn't fair. It isn't fair that this happened, and it isn't fair that he doesn't remember their life, and it isn't fair that he has permanent deficits that affect his quality of life, and it isn't fair that he just spent more than two days in so much pain even morphine could only tamp it to a six or a seven, and it isn't fair that he can't talk to her, and it isn't fair that he can't visit his family on Thanksgiving because he can't fly, and it's not. Freaking. Fair.

She pulls a tray of ice cubes from the freezer. She takes the tray outside. And then she throws the ice cubes at a tree like a hellbent baseball pitcher, one by one. The exertion and the violence make her feel better. She launches the last ice cube with a primal yell. She watches the ice splinter into zillions of tiny, frozen pieces, and then she takes a deep, cleansing breath, and she's done. It's not fair, and it **sucks** , but this is the life she has, and this is the Derek she gets.

She tries to focus on Sarah's pep talk. This **is** the life she has, and this **is** the Derek she gets, but at least she still gets a Derek. Things could have been a lot worse. Derek could be like Todd's wife, incapable of any level of independence, or Derek could be dead. And her life, in the grand scheme of lives everywhere …?

She has a really nice one.

* * *

Stewart brings the kids back on Wednesday evening. Zola wants to see Daddy the second she's across the threshold. Meredith can't imagine how scared the kids have been after seeing Derek taken out of the house on a stretcher. Meredith makes a mental note to thank Stewart profusely for dealing with them while she wasn't capable.

Meredith picks up Zola, rests her daughter against her hip, and heads to the master bedroom where Derek is sleeping. "See, he's fine Zozo," Meredith says from the threshold, a whisper. The hallway light spreads in a triangle into the dark room, illuminating part of the sleeping lump within. "Daddy's fine."

"What happened?" Zola says.

"You know how his brain cut really hurts sometimes?" Meredith says.

Zola nods. "He got a grain?"

"That's right," Meredith says, nodding. "He got a migraine, but he's fine, now." She hopes. But she doesn't think Zola needs to hear the worries coiling in Meredith's stomach like snakes.

"I didn't do it, did I?" Zola says.

"Do what?" Meredith says.

Zola sniffs. "I tried to fix it."

Meredith thinks back to Sunday, when Zola and Bailey were playing doctor. "Oh, Zozo, no," Meredith says. She kisses Zola. "You didn't hurt Daddy at all. He **love** **s** playing with you. He just had a bad reaction to the weather."

"Weather hurts his brain cut?" Zola says.

Meredith strokes her hair. "Just the thunderstorms."

"Why?"

Meredith thinks about how to explain pressure to a five-year-old. Zola's never been on a plane before, so Meredith can't use that as an example, and Zola's too little to swim in the deep end at the pool, so Meredith can't use that example, either. "It's just how the body works, Zozo. Everybody's body responds to weather in different ways. Daddy's reaction is just … extreme."

"Oh," Zola says. "You swear he's okay?"

Meredith kisses her head. "I double dog swear," she says.

Zola laughs. "Mommy, double dog is for dares."

"Oh," Meredith says. She grins. "Right."

"Can I talk to him?" Zola says.

Meredith shakes her head. "Maybe, tomorrow, okay? He's sleeping, now, and he really needs sleep."

Zola doesn't seem thrilled with this restriction, but she doesn't complain either. Meredith puts her and Bailey to bed, and she collapses beside her still-silent husband. She won't worry, yet. She won't worry. She won't worry.

* * *

She wakes to the feeling of being watched on Thursday morning. Birdsong pierces the dawn. She cracks open her eyelids. Derek's watching her with an unblinking gaze. He rests on his side, head propped up by his elbow and hand, and she finds the morning hauntingly familiar.

"Were you watching me sleep?" she says, smiling at him.

He doesn't respond except to blink. The covers rustle as she rolls over. She puts a palm to his shoulder, and she runs it down his side. He captures her hand and pulls it to his lips. He kisses the back of her hand, and he smiles. He must be feeling a lot better if he's kissing and smiling. Why no speaking?

"Derek, can you talk?" she says. "Please, just one word. I'll stop bugging you. I just want to hear you say something, so I know you can."

He breaks eye contact and stares at the mattress. He swallows. He takes a deep breath. His mouth works. At first, all she hears are the awkward, popping syllables that tell her he's tried to say something, but he can't get his throat to eject the word he wants. "P-p-p," he tries and fails, and he stops to think some more. "Pause," he manages in a croaky rasp that makes it sound like the effort he's just expended is analogous to someone climbing Mount Everest.

She laughs. Pause. She thinks this is the most beautiful word in the universe right now. Pause. She scoots closer, and she kisses him. She stops bugging him after that. She can pause for him, however long he needs a pause for. She doesn't mind. She's just glad to know he can still speak, and that he's choosing not to waste the effort on it right now.

* * *

Stewart does Meredith the kindness of taking Zola to school, so Meredith doesn't have to worry about that, too. She calls in sick again. She watches Bailey, and she checks in on Derek every hour. He spends most of his time sleeping. After she puts Bailey down for his afternoon nap, she goes to their bedroom to lie next to Derek while she reads her book. The sound of his breathing relaxes her.

"Mommy?" a tiny, warble-y voice says before she's made it more than a paragraph, and Meredith looks up to see Bailey standing at the open doorway, wide-eyed, face barely visible over the billowing puffball of his fuzzy safety blanket.

"What's wrong, Bailey?" Meredith says, setting down her book. "Can't sleep?"

Derek wakes at these words. He doesn't talk, but he sees Bailey, and he smiles. Bailey toddles to Derek's side of the bed. "Dada want banky?" Bailey says, and he proffers his bundle to Derek. Derek does Bailey one better though, and he sits up long enough to pull both kid and blanket into a cuddly hug. Bailey giggles.

When Derek resettles in the bed, he settles Bailey next to him, the security blanket mashed between them, and Bailey takes his nap in Derek's arms.

* * *

When Stewart brings Zola home from school Thursday evening after a playdate with Annie, Derek's lying on the couch in the living room, curled up under a blanket while he watches the muted television. He flips channels with the disinterest of someone who's not feeling that great, but doesn't want to sleep. Stewart waves but seems to sense Derek's not up for company right now, and Stewart doesn't stay.

"Hi, Daddy!" Zola chirps.

Derek looks at Zola and gives her a smile. With some struggle, he manages to say, "Hello."

Zola pulls Candy Land from the board game stack and takes it to the sofa. "Want to play Candy Land with me?"

Meredith's ready to step in, but Derek nods after some thought. He pushes off his blanket. He wobbles to the dining room table to sit while Zola sets up the game board. Meredith sits next to him. "Bailey, want to play?" she calls, and Bailey gets up from making his block sculpture.

They play as a family. Derek doesn't talk much, but it turns out one doesn't need much in the way of words to play Candy Land. Zola and Bailey are both gentle with him, and neither one peppers him with a lot of demands for social interaction. It's like they've been living with him long enough to get the drill, even though they're a little too young to understand all the whys of it. They just want Daddy, and he's giving him that.

* * *

Friday, Meredith takes another sick day, though she almost feels like she has her husband back. He's not a chatty Cathy, but he's talking in halting sentences, and while Zola's at school, Meredith takes Derek and Bailey for a slow walk around the lake.

The air is crisp and clear, and the sun's back in the sky. She and Derek walk side by side. She buries her hand in his right jean pocket, and he does the same with her left jean pocket, and they watch while Bailey trots ahead.

Derek stops to pick a leaf off a bush similar to the yellow one he fixated on three weeks ago. A little longer, and the leaves will fall off the bush, but they're not quite there yet. They remain attached, but dry and dying or dead. "It … turn … brown," Derek says, staring at it.

"Yeah," Meredith says. "I wish the colors stayed longer."

"… Yes," Derek says. He lets go of the leaf, and it flutters to the ground. He starts walking again, and she follows.

"Duckies!" Bailey says, and he dashes toward the water to look, but the birds explode into flight and flee. Bailey giggles, watching them. "Duckies fly, Mommy!"

"Yes, they do," Meredith says with a smile.

Bailey bends to pick up a muddy rock that interests him, and he looks at that as he marches farther down the trail, and Meredith looks at Derek. "So, we need to talk a little about what happened," she says. She leans to kiss him, and he accepts the gesture of affection with a pleased rumble.

"What?" he says when she pulls away.

"Do you understand why you got that migraine?" Meredith says.

Derek shakes his head.

"Apparently violent weather like that is a trigger for you."

Derek swallows. "Okay."

"The same conditions that happen during that kind of weather happen during plane flights."

He thinks for a long moment before he nods. "… Okay."

"I don't think we can visit your family for Thanksgiving," she says. "I think the plane will hurt you."

He considers that without expression. He takes an even longer time thinking. He looks at the ground, and she hears a few syllables get stuck before he manages another, "… Okay."

"You're okay not going to New York for Thanksgiving?" she says.

He shrugs. "You say .…" He pauses. He stares at nothing while he tries to speak. "You say .…" Another hiccup, and he sighs like he's getting frustrated. "You say I can't."

"You're not upset?" she clarifies.

He looks at her with wet eyes. He's upset, all right. Crap. He swallows, and his mouth opens and closes. He thinks, and he struggles. "Please … no talk," he says, voice cracking. "I .…" Another sigh. "N-no."

"Okay," she says. "Sorry."

They finish their lake walk in silence.

* * *

"Why not take the train?" Sarah shouts over the music as they bounce to the rhythm. The crowd at the club writhes around them in the dark. The air fills with heat. "Or the bus?"

"It takes days to go cross country that way," Meredith says. "I have a job, and two kids, and I-"

"Derek doesn't," Sarah says.

"Derek has kids. They're **our** kids."

Sarah rolls her eyes. "Yes, I know that, but Derek doesn't have a job. He's retired. He has time to take the train or the bus."

Meredith blinks. "Oh. Well, that's true .…"

She stops bouncing to brush her fingers through her sweaty hair. God, even doing this with some regularity again, even semi-fit, she's not as spry as she was in her twenties. Her chest hurts from panting, and she thinks … break time.

Sarah stops bouncing, too. "Need to rest?"

Meredith nods, and they head back to their table. No tequila tonight. Meredith doesn't want to wake up on Sunday with a hangover. She sticks to white wine and appetizers. Their half-eaten fried mozzarella sticks wait for them, and she grabs one and dunks it in the marinara as she climbs back into her chair. The cheese is cold and solidifying, but … the appetizer still tastes okay. She swallows.

"You have a face," Sarah says.

Meredith frowns. "What? I do not have a face."

"Meredith," Sarah says. "You have a face. Spill."

Meredith sighs and grabs a peanut shell to pick at, so she has something to do with her hands. "It's just … he **just** took the taxi for the first time by himself last week."

"Well, did he end up in Mexico?" Sarah says.

"No, he made it home," Meredith says. "He was fine."

Meredith bites her lip and flicks the peanut shell across the table. Sarah flicks it back. "So?" Sarah prods. "I mean if you want to play peanut hockey, we can, but .…"

"A cross-country trip has connections," Meredith says. "And … layovers. He might have to stay in a hotel overnight. And what if he gets lost, or he has to talk to people when he's not in the mood to talk, or when he **can't** talk, or he can't read something important? What if the stress from solo travel gives him a migraine after all, which is what we were trying to avoid in the first place? Or-"

"Meredith," Sarah says with a laugh. "You can't prepare for every eventuality. He's an adult. He's disabled, yes, but he's an adult, and he deserves some independence. Eventually, you have to let him sink or swim."

"But what if he sinks?"

"The world won't end if he sinks," Sarah says with a shrug. "And, ideally, you'd do some practice runs where he can sink locally, rather than somewhere in Chicago or something."

"But-"

"Look," Sarah says. "You have a month, still, to teach him how to travel. Talk to his occupational therapist. Send Derek on some practice trips on the weekends when you can go rescue him if he gets stuck. You wanted him to learn how to use the bus, anyway, right? So, he could go to the TBI parent meetings?"

"I .…"

"Okay, what's wrong?" Sarah says. She brushes her blackish hair out of her face. Sweat pearls on her forehead, and she's flushed, but she still looks perfect, and it isn't fair. "I expected you to leap for joy and tell me I'm so smart for thinking of this."

Meredith closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. She rubs herself. "Sarah, the last time I let him go, the police came to my door and told me he was dead."

"Oh," Sarah says. She shakes her head, hops off her stool, and comes around to Meredith's side of the table. She squeezes Meredith's shoulder. "Oh, Meredith. This isn't even remotely the same."

"But it feels the same," Meredith says. A lump forms in her throat. Her eyes prick. "To me, it feels the same. I **just** started feeling like I have him back again, and then the universe sends me this huge neener neener memo with that thunderstorm, and I .…"

"Meredith, you can't keep him chained to your side and under supervision forever," Sarah says in a gentle tone.

"I know!" Meredith says. She slaps the table with frustration. "I know I can't. It's not fair to him, and I love him, and I want what's best for him. But I thought .…"

Sarah gives her an understanding look. "Not now?"

"Yeah," Meredith says. "Not now. Not yet."

"Maybe, you should talk to him," Sarah says. "Talk to Derek. Tell him how you're feeling."

Meredith looses a bitter laugh. That's even worse, she thinks. Derek's been so much better, lately. So much. He's working on being a dad again, and he wants to be her husband. He wants it. But is he really ready to shoulder the burdens of a full, three-dimensional relationship with a wife who has emotional needs that don't necessarily coincide with his desires? She shakes her head. God, this is so hard to navigate, and every freaking time she thinks things are getting easier, they get harder, instead.

* * *

 **More Author's Notes:** I know some of you are going to be very upset by this chapter. I hope the last paragraph makes it obvious at least partially where I'm going with this, but if it doesn't, please, rest assured, I've got reasons for doing this, and not a single one of them is, "Torture MerDer." Remember, you know how it ends, thanks to Recover. No sad ending in sight :)


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Notes:**

Behind again! Please, forgive me. I'll catch up this weekend, though! Thank you, everyone for the feedback, and thanks for sticking with me.

For anyone who's curious (you'll know what this is when you get to that part):

1\. Happy - Marina and the Diamonds

2\. Don't Let Me Go - The Raign

3\. Spark - Fitz & The Tantrums

4\. We Can Make The World Stop - The Glitch Mob

5\. Fire Breather - Laurel

6\. These New Knights - Ou Est Le Swimming Pool

* * *

 **Week twenty-four.**

When Meredith wakes up sans hangover, exactly as she's planned, she makes a vow to her steaming coffee cup to buck up and talk to Derek today. About everything. Even if it's hard. Even if she thinks it's not going to go well. Even if she's scared. As soon as he wakes up enough to do some talking, they'll talk.

Except Derek doesn't come out of the bedroom on Sunday morning. At first, she thinks he's just sleeping late, still recuperating from the nightmare that was last week, and she leaves him alone as best she can, because this conversation is going to suck, and she wants him to be refreshed for it. At lunch, though, when she checks in on him, she doesn't find him sleeping like she expects. He sits in the big reading chair by the window, but he isn't reading. He gazes out the window at the drizzly green and gray gloom beyond the glass, not blinking, not reacting, not anything.

She has a momentary war. Break or don't break the no-talking-in-the-bedroom rule? Break, or don't break it? Break, or …? Instinct compels her to speak.

"Hey," she says in a gentle tone. "Derek, are you okay?"

For a long moment, he doesn't budge, doesn't give her any indication that she's been heard, and the sense of wrongness burgeons.

"Derek?" she repeats. "Derek, are you okay?"

He swallows, and he shakes his head. No. Not okay. He raises his hands to his eyes, and he rubs them, and for the first time, she thinks he might be crying. Since he hasn't turned his head, she moves through the bedroom toward the window. What was a profile view becomes head on, and she can see it, now. He's not sobbing or anything, nothing so dramatic as that. Just … leaking. Salty tracks glisten on his skin, and his eyes are puffy and red.

"Hey, what's wrong?" she says.

His expression makes her heart hurt, but he doesn't open his mouth, doesn't speak. She's not sure what to do, whether to try more to prod him into conversation or not, so she does what she knows. She approaches the chair, slides into the gap between his hip and the chair arm, and wraps her arms around him.

"If you don't want to talk right now, that's okay," she says, settling on a zero-pressure approach. She rubs his back. "But if you want to, I'm here. We can figure it out, even if you don't know the words."

"… I do want," he says in a wavering voice. "I'm … I do want."

"I'm listening," she says.

He opens his mouth. A tiny syllable that makes nothing resembling a word pops out. And then he closes his mouth. And opens. Another pop. And he closes his mouth again, and he sucks in a breath. He thinks, and he tries again. Nothing. And nothing. And nothing.

He makes a deep, rough sound of upset. He sniffs. "I have so much, but I can't .…"

She pulls her fingers through his hair. "It's okay," she says.

"I … I … I …," he tries. Another rough sound. "I can't say name," he says in a crushed tone.

"Your name?" Meredith says.

He shakes his head. " **Your** name. I can't say."

A pit hollows out her stomach. "That's okay," she assures him. "I know you know who I am. It's okay if you can't say it today. That's okay."

"Talk so much w … w … w … work .…"

"Derek, it's okay. Really, it's okay. You're coming out of an awful week."

"No," he growls. "No, you don't .…" He gets stuck. His lips move, nothing comes out. He closes his eyes, and he thinks, and he takes a deep breath. He runs his fingers along his craniotomy scar. "I know I'm .…" He sighs. "I …. I .…" He gives her a hopeless look. "I try not … want thing." He swallows. "I try not. I know I'm … I'm …."

A lump forms in her throat when she thinks she knows what he's driving at. He knows he's disabled. He tries not to want things he can't have as a result. She rubs his back. She's got no idea what to say.

"I can't … neurosurgeon," Derek says. "Run. Use … hand. Think … fast. Remember. Understand talk. My head hurt … many … time." He gives her a broken look. "This okay, I live this, but … I hate I can't … say think. My .… My .…" He looks at the ceiling while his lips move. His lower lip quivers, and he sniffs, and then he loses himself in real weeping. "I want talk," he says. "I want. I want … see … family." He inhales roughly. "Why can't I do this things? I want. I … t … try not, but … I want. What … did I did … to have this took? I am bad? Why did …?"

"Derek," she says, the word a croak, because now she's crying, too. "Derek, you didn't do anything to deserve this. You didn't. The world just **sucks**. It sucks, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry this happened to you."

"This small want," Derek says, weeping. "I take other bad. Why can't … I have talk family?"

Tell him, a tiny voice says. Just tell him. Tell him about the travel. Tell him he can at least see his family. There's no fixing the talking thing. There are no substitutes, either. People with his kind of aphasia have great difficulty with **all** forms of converting internal thoughts to externally communicated words. Not just talking, but with writing, too. Hell, even sign language. She felt awful after she thought she'd come up with the solution, only to have Derek's neurologist crush her hopes. Derek can learn to write and sign just like he's learned to talk, but he'll never reliably be able to pick up a pencil and write what he can't say, nor will he ever be able to sign his way through a verbal traffic jam.

He's weeping in her arms, and she can fix some of it. She hates when he hurts, and she can fix some of it. But when she opens her mouth, it's like she's caught his aphasia, because a tsunami of fear bowls her over, and nothing comes out. Nothing. The reason he has these problems is because she let him go, and she can't do it again. She can't do it, yet. She's not ready.

"This small want," he whispers. "This small want. This .…"

She rubs his back. The shh shh shh of her hands against the cotton of his t-shirt, along with his upset chanting, fills the quiet. She can't say it's okay, because it's not, and it never will be. And that saying, the one about everything happening for a reason? That's bull crap. Things suck because they suck, and life's a freaking crapshoot.

She has no idea what to do, and her head is full.

"Do you want to dance it out?" she says in a soft, croaky voice.

He sniffs. "… What?"

She hugs him so hard her arms hurt. "It doesn't fix crap, but it feels good."

* * *

She leads Derek into the living room, to the stereo system. He stares at nothing, eyes puffy, face blank and red, and she hurts for him. She hurts.

"Wait here," she says, and she leaves him standing there for a moment.

She checks Bailey's room. Bailey's playing with his dinosaurs, oblivious to the world. She checks Zola's room next. Zola's having what looks like a tea party with Chip, her lion. Meredith heads to her office to grab her iPod, and she takes it back to the living room with her.

Derek hasn't moved. She pauses to wrap her arms around him. She rubs his back until she hears him sigh, and his body slumps. She hears him sniff somewhere by her ear. She can hear his voice in her head, telling her that her dark and twisty is a strength, but in this moment, her dark and twisty falls far too short. She can't understand or imagine what he's going through. He's caught up and lapped her in the race for the dark and twisty crown. She can't imagine being snatched from where she is now and dumped into a place where being able to parent independently is a lofty aspiration. She can't imagine, and she can't offer him any sort of worthwhile pep talk, either, because she has no pep to give him. In this, her dark and twisty is a dirty, dirty saboteur, because she's pepless. Without pep.

"I can't … talk … m … m … m … more," Derek says in a soft, upset tone. "Today, I .…" He inhales roughly. "It … too h-hard. My head h-hurt. It h-hurt."

"That's okay," she assures him. She pulls her fingers through his hair. "You don't ever have to explain to me. Seriously, you don't."

She leans onto her tip toes, and she kisses him, and then she pulls away to hook up her iPod. Over the weeks, she's been working on a Derek-safe playlist, for those times when she wants to listen to music without disturbing him if he's around somewhere. She's picked out tons of songs with a heavy emphasis on bass rhythm instead of high-pitched snares and cymbals. Since he says his head hurts, she's careful to keep the volume low. High enough to hear and feel, but nothing so loud that it's impossible to talk over. She navigates to her special Derek-proof playlist, hits play, and steps away from the speakers.

"If any of these songs bug your ears, let me know, okay?" she says. "I'll take them out of the list."

He nods.

When the first song begins, she smiles. A slow one to start with. Good. This one doesn't have any percussion beyond pianos for the first minute and a half. She wraps her arms behind his neck and clasps her fingers together. She moves with the rhythm, using the piano's chord progression to guide her just like a drum. She twists her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Have you danced before?" she says.

He shakes his head.

"It's mostly a feeling thing," she explains. "Move with the rhythm."

He watches her for a moment. He rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands while she sways next to him. He doesn't try to shift back and forth with her. She slides her hands down his chest and rests them on his hips.

"Loosen up a little," she says, and she pushes him, a gentle shove against his left hip that makes him sway like a tree. With the next beat, she pushes against his right hip. He's pliant to her touch, but doesn't provide any of his own locomotion.

She worries that this might be a bust. That he's humoring her because she's Meredith, and he'll humor just about anything she suggests unless it causes him pain. That he's just not a dance-y person. He wasn't dance-y before the accident, and now he's even less enamored with music than he used to be, because he can't listen to so much of what he used to like. She thinks about digging out some Mozart or something and trying to waltz, but she has no freaking idea how to dance dance, like dance with steps. She can only bounce or sway or combine the two into some sort of spastic writhing.

"Watch my feet," she instructs, trying to get him into this, and he looks down. She shifts her weight from foot to foot with the piano's chords, and she keeps pushing his hips. At first, she almost wonders if he doesn't hear rhythm anymore, but after a few beats, he gets the idea and moves under his own steam.

"I found what I've been looking for in myself," sings the vocalist, a woman with a smoky, alto tone. It's a song by Marina and the Diamonds, but Meredith can't remember the name of the song without looking. "Found a life worth living for someone else."

By the time the drum cuts in, Meredith and Derek are already swaying together in time with the rhythm. Fast freaking learner, indeed. She smiles up at him, and he gives her a wavering smile in return. Over the moments, he shifts from reluctant participant to hesitant, but willing partner. Her eyelids dip, and she sighs when he wraps his arms low around her waist. She rests her ear against his chest, happy to be in his arms. She inhales, filling herself with the comforting scents of clean cotton and the faint musk that defines him.

"I believe in possibility," the song continues. "I believe someone's watching over me. And finally I have found a way to be. Happy. Happy."

She snorts. Not an inappropriate song for cheering someone up, she supposes. She wonders if he bothers parsing the lyrics, or if he ignores the meaning and listens to the melody alone. She wonders how he hears the melody. She knows his auditory cortex doesn't work quite right at certain pitches, and she's left wishing she could hear things how he hears them, just so she can understand him better.

"Do you try to understand the words?" she says.

He shakes his head.

The next song starts. The beat is a little faster, and she speeds up. He follows her lead. Time melts away. He's warm, and in her space, and breathing beside her ear.

"This always helps me when I feel like crap," she says. She swallows. "I hope it helps you. I'm so sorry you feel like crap."

His grip tightens, but he doesn't say anything.

"So, what do you think?" she adds. "Like dancing so far?"

She doesn't catch whether he nods or shakes his head, but he doesn't stop, doesn't pull away, stays a strip of skin, bone, and sculpted muscle in her arms. He nuzzles her, and she feels his lips press against her temple. She squeezes the skin on the nape of his neck and smiles.

Song number three is a true dance-it-out song, and she pulls back from him. He frowns. "This one is a bouncer," she tells him, "not a sway song."

"You think it's over now," belts the singer, a man. "You think we'll go away. But we keep climbing up. You can't keep us down."

As soon as she picks up the beat in her head, she jumps in time with it. At his perplexed look, she giggles, and she bounces in a circle around him. "C'mon, bounce!"

His body jerks like he's laughed. She thinks he's not going to do it. Bounce. He's got the rhythm. He bobs his head in perfect time. But his feet don't move. He never used to dance to this kind of thing before. She was lucky if she could get him to participate in a slow song. She thinks, maybe, this facet of his personality stuck through the accident.

"Dance it out, Derek!" she says, grinning at him.

His face is still red and raw-looking, but she catches a glint in his eye, and the skin around his eyes crinkles. A soft, delightful chuckle rumbles from his lips as he watches her. Fine, then. If he won't bounce, she'll at least ham it up for him. The goal is to make him feel better. She rolls her shoulders to the beat and makes a face. He laughs this time. A real laugh. And he looks at her like she's the most precious gift in the world to him.

"We give it every night," cries the singer. "Our hearts are dynamite. We spit that fire, so you better listen up."

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. On a whim, she grabs his arms and tries one more time. "Dance it out!" she says again. "You can do it. Vent the crap!"

"Don't they know?" the man sings. "The speaker is about to explode! Don't they know? This building is about to blow!"

Derek's body twitches in time with the drums. His feet are getting springy. He doesn't move, yet, but he's close. She revolves her bouncing in a half-circle around him, until she's dancing back-to-back with him. The second she takes her eyes from him, she can feel the air behind her move, can hear the thump, thump, thump as he defies and then surrenders to gravity. So, he's a self-conscious bouncer. She shifts her gaze enough to catch him in her peripheral vision. Yep, he's moving. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. She turns away, giving him privacy.

The song changes, and they get a four-on-the-floor beat, but no real lyrics other than the occasional, "We can make the world stop!" It's a wacky electronic number that she worries might be a bit too high-pitched for him in places, but when she turns to check on him, she finds him staring back at her, still like stone, an affectionate look loitering in his eyes, and no sign of discomfort anywhere.

"You stopped!" she says. "Keep going; I promise I won't watch." She proceeds to bounce to the new rhythm, and she rotates 180 degrees to keep her eyes off him. After a few moments, she can hear him moving again. Panting. Working.

Bouncing.

"Mommy, what you doing?" Bailey says when he peeks around the edge of the couch with a bewildered expression on his face.

She can't recall ever having danced it out while the kids were around, before. She grins at him. "Dancing it out. Want to join us?" Bailey wanders closer, pinky stuck in his mouth as he ponders this strange seizure disorder his parents have developed. She bounces over to him, grabs his tiny hands, smiles, and says, "Jump! Jump! Jump!"

Bailey giggles and tries to copy her. He has the rhythm of a deaf cow or something, but he tries, and Meredith can't help but giggle with him. Of course, Zola hears the giggling, and she wants to know what's going on. In minutes, her entire family, big and small, is bouncing by the speakers. Zola and Bailey are a giggle storm. Derek's quiet about it, but at least he doesn't seem to find his children spectating as mortifying as he finds Meredith watching, and he keeps going as long as she doesn't look in his direction.

The next song is a slow-ish one. Not a bouncer, but not really a swaying song, either. "Town crier. Village flyer. Got a skull and crossbones on his chest, and I can't resist, when he looks like this," the singer croons.

Meredith risks turning to face Derek. He stops bouncing in a nanosecond and watches her with a curious but warm expression. She glides into his space. Sweat beads on his skin, and he's breathing hard. She wraps her arms around his waist and shimmies to the beat while Zola and Bailey prance to no rhythm whatsoever at her and Derek's feet.

"I promise I won't laugh," she says. She tugs on his shirt. "Please?"

The skin around his eyes crinkles as he regards her, and the smile takes over his whole face. He looks so handsome when he smiles. And her heart aches less to see him having a little fun. He watches her dance for a moment. She thinks he's not going to join her, but he leans into her space and kisses her, stilling her movement. The pause is a brief one. Then he's moving with her, in her space, his body pressed against hers, not really a bounce or a sway, but a happy, writhing medium that he seems to find an acceptable level of embarrassing.

She grins. "You're good at this."

"Daddy, look at me!" Zola says from somewhere behind Meredith.

"I … see," Derek says over Meredith's shoulder. He clears his throat. "You … g-g-great … leap."

Meredith smiles at him as they move and sway. Even as down as he is about the talking thing, he can still find some syllables for Zola, and that means the world to Meredith, that he's willing to do that for his children. "I love you," she says.

His gaze flicks back to her. _I love you, too,_ she imagines him saying in her head in a soft, reverent tone, like he always used to, a call and response. He doesn't say that, but some expressions don't need words to be said, and he radiates affection from every pore. She lets that be enough.

"On a scale of one to ten," she says, "how much are you enjoying yourself right now?" He holds up six fingers for her, and her grin stretches. Six may not be a fun-palooza, but six is pretty freaking amazing considering he probably started at a one.

"We dance up!" Bailey says, bouncing this way and that to a rhythm not even close to what's coming out of the speakers. He's like a hyper little pogo stick, and Meredith laughs.

"We dance it out," she corrects him.

"Dance up!" he says.

She snorts and shakes her head. Another fast song begins to play, and she lets it carry her into a rhythmic bounce. What surprises her, though, is that Derek joins her. Even while she's watching. Jump. Jump. Jump. She can see why he might have been nervous about letting her see this. With his weak leg, he's not graceful, his jumps aren't much more than tiny hops, and his landings are precarious and asymmetric, placing far more weight on his left foot than his right. She makes a point of watching him with a smile, but no laughter.

"Hi," she says.

He swallows. "… Hello," he manages.

They bounce together, not paying any attention to the moments as time fleets.

* * *

After everyone gets tired of dancing, Meredith puts Bailey down for an afternoon nap, and Zola disappears back into her room to play. Derek sits in the living room in the big, overstuffed chair. He closes his eyes, and his breaths even out, and Meredith is careful to tiptoe while he recuperates. A misty drizzle picks up outside, leaving water droplets on the window panes, and a thick, gloomy look in the air outside the windows, but no discernible precipitation. Typical Seattle rain.

She kills some time in her office, working on her research. Derek makes dinner around six. The smell of cut, sautéing peppers fills the air in the house, and her nostrils flutter as she inhales.

Derek pokes his head into her office a while later to tell her dinner's ready. He doesn't say anything, just raps on the door with the back of his hand and gives her an unenthusiastic half-smile and a _c'mere_ wave when she looks up.

She doesn't prod him into conversation to fill the silence since she knows he's having trouble with the whole verbal thing today, though she kind of wishes she could. She feels rotten for thinking it, but she misses their easy chats, too. She misses him gabbing her ears off from dawn until dusk whenever he's in her vicinity. She misses Chatty Derek, though she'll never say that to Aphasia Derek's face, never ever ever, and she appreciates more than she can say how much effort he puts forth to fulfill her need for talk.

They all eat together as a family. Zola and Bailey are chatterboxes, gabbing back and forth at each other. Derek watches them converse with a wistfulness in his expression that makes Meredith's chest hurt all over again, because she knows he wants that – the talking thing – and he can't have it anymore.

He disappears back into their bedroom a little bit after dinner. To sleep, she thinks, and all of her plans to talk with him about the traveling thing and her horrid abandonment complex evaporate. She can't talk to him today. Not when he's this worn out. Not when he can't even reply.

She can't help the small bath of relief that spills over her.

* * *

After she puts the kids in bed, she heads to the master bedroom to check on Derek. He's in the shower, not asleep. She steps into the bathroom. The air is thick with steam, and the thunder of falling water against the shower basin fills the room, echoing off the tiled walls and floor.

"Hey, can I join you?" she says, licking her lips. "I hear joint showering makes people feel better, too. Wanna try it?"

He doesn't answer, though. Not right away. Not in five seconds, not in ten. She gives him a solid minute before she worries.

"Derek?" she says. "Are you okay?"

She hears a low moan of misery, and she snaps into motion. He's fallen in the shower. He's hurt. She's sure of it. She yanks open the stall door and looks. A lump forms in her throat. He's fine in a physical sense. But he's crying again, sitting on the shower bench she had installed for him just before he came home. Crap. She supposes his moment of futile bargaining that morning isn't the kind of thing one hour of dancing can fix.

"Hey," she says in a soft, soothing voice when he looks at her with red eyes. "I'm sorry; I thought you might be hurt. Do you want me to go?"

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He squeezes his eyes shut, and the low moan she heard before repeats. His torso jerks. She doesn't know what to do. She opts to strip and step into the spray with him. Not for sex, just comfort. She sits next to him. Her hands slip on his slick skin as she wraps her arms around him.

She can't get his voice out of her head. _What … did I did … to have this took?_ _I am bad?_ _Why did …?_

She hugs him while water rains around them, and neither says a word.

* * *

Derek's a morose, silent lump in the car on the way to rehab on Monday, and the quiet in the car is thick, oppressive, awful. Every once in a while, she catches some movement in the corner of her eye, and she chances a gaze in his direction, only to find him wiping at his face with his hands. She thinks he's still crying. He's being stealthy about his grief, but he's still shedding it, and she can't even talk to him about it, because whenever she asks him a question, that only seems to upset him more.

* * *

Meredith glowers at the patient chart she's trying to fill out. She's sitting at a nurses' station that she's commandeered. Something pings her peripheral vision. Movement. She tries not to pay attention to it, because she knows what it is. Or, rather, who. It's Jo. Flitting about like a mosquito looking for a blood popsicle. She's been buzzing in Meredith's space all morning with all the subtlety of a moose.

A hand reaches for the stapler to Meredith's left, and Meredith sighs. "Jo, what do you want?"

Jo snatches her hand back like she's been stung. "Want? What could I want? Who says I want anything?"

"If Cristina's right, and I'm the sun, then you're being freaking Jupiter or something. Seriously."

Jo blinks. "Huh?"

Meredith glares. "You've been here all morning. All. Freaking. Morning."

A noise catches in Jo's throat kind of like Derek when he gets stuck. "I have not been here …." She looks at the ceiling, thinking, and she winces. "Well, not **all** morning."

"Look," Meredith says. Her chair creaks as she leans back. "If you have a point, get to it. If you don't, please, go away. I'm trying to work."

Jo sighs. "How's Derek?"

Meredith frowns. "Is this a trick question?"

"Why would it be a trick question?" Jo says.

"Code blue!" cries a nurse from room 229, followed by the unmistakable whine of asystole on the patient's heart monitor. A team with a crash cart races past in moments, followed by an exhausted-looking resident. Meredith's first instinct is to jump up and help, but the tiny hospital room is already full of people – nurses, the resident – and Meredith isn't remotely familiar with the crashed patient's medical history or status. She wouldn't be of any help, and in fact, might be a detriment by clogging up valuable space that could be better used by someone more in the know.

Jo looks similarly conflicted. "I hate not helping with those. It feels weird to be exchanging pleasantries less than thirty feet from that."

Meredith sighs. "Yeah. Nothing we can do, though."

They watch in grim silence as the chaos inside the tiny room resolves to stillness, and time of death is called. Jo nods like she's trying to convince herself this situation has some sort of justice or rightness in it, though to Meredith, it doesn't. Death is just the guaranteed suck that caps the crapshoot of life.

"So, why would me asking about Derek be a trick question?" Jo says.

"Because not even two months ago, you pretty much told me point blank that Derek's state of being is the last thing you want to hear about," Meredith says.

"Not because I don't care about him!" Jo insists. "Derek's important to you, and you're important to Alex, so Derek's important to me. And you were gone all last week, so, I thought, maybe-"

"Derek was in the hospital," Meredith says.

Jo gapes. "What? What for? What hospital?"

"He's okay. A bad migraine. St. Mary's."

"Meredith, I'm sorry," Jo says.

Meredith shrugs. "Nothing to be sorry about." She swallows against the lump in her throat. "My husband was in a horrible car accident, he's brain damaged, and he gets migraines. Migraines happen. He's fine, now." Except he's not. He's not fine at all. "Did you seriously flit around all day like a bug just to ask me about Derek?"

Jo gives her a guilty look, and Meredith rolls her eyes.

"Spill," Meredith says.

Silence stretches. Jo shifts from foot to foot, staring at her shoes. She bites her lip like she's having some sort of internal debate. And then she blurts, "Alex and I are getting married."

It's Meredith's turn to gape. "What? When?" And then she shakes some sense into herself and adds a bewildered, "Congratulations!"

"I'm sorry!" Jo says. "I'm sorry! Alex wanted to tell you weeks ago, but I thought it would be rude when you were having so many problems with Derek, so I made Alex keep it a secret, and I'm sorry."

Meredith swallows. "Jo, it's not rude to be happy. I'm happy for you."

"I know, but it just felt so wrong to flaunt it when-"

"Jo," Meredith snaps, interrupting her. "I'm. Happy. For. You." She musters a real smile, because she is. She's happy for Jo. And for Alex. Both of them deserve every happiness life can give them. "Really, I am. When are you getting married?"

Jo raises a finger to her mouth and bites her nail, looking apologetic all over again. "Um," Jo says. "Two weeks from now?"

"Two weeks?!" Meredith exclaims.

"It's not a big thing. I don't have a family, and Alex doesn't want much to do with his. We're going to the courthouse and then having a little get together at the house afterward. We were wondering if you would come? Derek, too, if he's up for it."

"Of course, I'll come," Meredith says. "What kind of a question is that? Have I really been that crappy of a friend?"

Jo looks guilty all over again. "You had a lot on your mind-"

Meredith sighs. "I have been. I've been a crap friend." She closes her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"You've had a **lot** on your mind," Jo repeats.

Meredith wonders how in the hell she can rectify this situation. She thought pulling back from dumping on them 24/7 would be enough, but she can see, now, that she underestimated the damage she's done. Jo was scared of mentioning she was happy. Nobody should be scared to be happy. And Meredith doesn't want to be a happiness vacuum. She doesn't want to be a crappy friend. And she doesn't want to miss out on the good things in her friends' lives, either.

"Do you have somebody planning your bachelorette party?" Meredith says.

Jo laughs. "Stephanie's got it, but thanks."

"Oh," Meredith says. She's not sure what else she can offer. She's not good at this stuff.

"Do you … want to come to that, too?" Jo says, eyebrows raised.

"Hmm," Meredith says. She smiles. "A night of tequila and male strippers? How could I ever turn that down?"

* * *

She's not sure what wakes her that night. Perhaps his sudden absence. All she knows when she blearily peers through her eyelashes into the muzzy darkness is that her face is mashed into his pillow, but not him. She squints at the clock. 1:13 a.m. Her first thought is that he's in the bathroom or something, and she drifts back into a doze, but he's still not back in the bed at 2:27, the next time she emerges from slumber to semi-wakefulness. She rises onto her elbows and squints at the opposite wall. The door to the master bathroom is a gaping, open yaw, and darkness fills the space beyond.

Frowning, she slides out of bed. When she opens the bedroom door, she hears his voice coming from the living room, a cheerful, laughing, babbling, fluent murmur. For a moment, all reason leaves her, and she thinks he's suddenly healed, and everything is fine, and her heart is stuck, throbbing in her throat as she dashes into the main part of the house.

It's not Derek speaking.

Well, no, it **is** Derek speaking.

But it's Old Derek – a ghost, frozen in time on a homemade DVD. He's sitting on his knees on the rug, eyes glinting as he waves Bailey forward. Bailey takes his not-quite-first wobbling steps toward the camera. A lump forms in Meredith's throat. That moment, capturing Bailey walking on film, is one of the few happy memories she can think of in the months preceding Derek's departure for D.C., despite the barely-averted shouting match preceding it.

 _How can I be zero for two?_ she remembers him saying. _It's not possible that I'm this bad at something._

 _Dancing. Singing,_ Meredith said, ticking things off on her fingers. _Breaking the rules. Admitting there are things you're horrible at …._

Derek looked at her with a scandalized expression, and then he snorted. _Fine,_ he said in a humoring tone. _Fine, I admit, I'm not perfect._

 _Oh, oh! Turn the camera the other way,_ Meredith said, bouncing.

He jerked, gaze snapping to Bailey, who was sitting on the rug, babbling nonsense at a toy car. _Huh?_ Derek said. _He's not moving._

 _No,_ Meredith said. _I mean at_ _ **you**_ _. I mean, maybe, we fail at capturing first steps, but that was a pretty pivotal moment in our lives. You admitting that._

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. _Meredith …._

Meredith sighed, too. _Sorry,_ she said. _Sorry, I …. I'm tired._

 _Are we ever not going to fight anymore?_ he says.

 _I …._ A lump formed in her throat. _Why didn't you just go?_

His eyes flashed. _Because of_ _ **this**_ _, Meredith._ He gestured at Bailey. _Because you won't go with me, and I don't want to_ _ **miss**_ _this! I don't want to miss my family._

 _Yeah, and now you're going to resent me for the rest of eternity,_ Meredith said.

Derek snorted with derision. _I don't know if you noticed, but I'm not the one who started this tonight. Who's resenting whom?_

 _You're right,_ Meredith said. She wished she didn't feel like spending time with him was like whack-a-mole with a gross of eggshells. _You're right. Can we just … rewind? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pick a fight._

His hackles lowered. He swallowed. _Fine,_ he said, but his expression was a dark, wounded one.

She nodded. _Fine._ She looked down to the carpet to check on Bailey again, only to find him in another spot. _Oh, my god, he moved, and we missed it._ _ **Again.**_

Derek licked his lips and sighed. The hurt in his expression melted away, and after he rubbed his hands against his face, all she could see was exhaustion. He leaned forward on his elbows and peered at Bailey. _I don't suppose you want to walk to Daddy, now, while we're watching you instead of sniping at each other, do you?_ Bailey grinned and made a giggling noise, but didn't move. Derek turned back to Meredith. _This is kind of like trying to watch a pot boil._

Meredith snorted. _Go sit on the rug and call him,_ she said. _I'll try filming for a while._

Meredith bites her lip as she sees the culmination of this memory playing for her on the television, the happy moments after the sniping. When Bailey walked while Derek beckoned, and Meredith caught it on camera. Old Derek's recorded ghost is laughing, and joking, and happy, the perfect antonym of New Derek, who's sitting on the couch in the dark with the remote clutched in his hand, staring without expression through a wet film of not-yet-fallen grief.

She sits on the couch next to him and wraps her arms around him. He blinks, and his wet eyes spill. "What are you doing?" she whispers.

He sniffs and doesn't reply, but she knows the answer to her question. She knows. Derek watches the videos that are solely of the kids or Meredith all the time, but any videos with him anywhere in them? He's watched each one once and then never touched them again before tonight. And, now, he's torturing himself with them. Watching himself talk and walk and laugh and be his pre-accident normal.

She pulls her fingers through his hair. "Please, don't do this to yourself."

"I want … back," he says in a broken tone. "Please, I want back."

"I know you do."

"I give … anything," he says.

"I know," she says, lump like a basketball stuck in her throat. She rubs his arm. "I know you would."

"I want talk. I want talk you. I want … talk … kids."

She's out of words at this point, because she's weeping, too, and she just … can't. She's out of strength to offer right now. A syllable catches in his throat. He hums the letter M, hitching over and over like he's trying to say her name. He tries one more time. Again. His fingers tighten into fists. He clutches at her shirt. Then he gives up and falls into upset silence, and she can't think of a single thing to say to him.

"Please," he croaks. "Please, this all I want. I take other bad. Please."

The old, echo of him, the one on the television chuckles. _I think he has your spirit_ , he says.

Meredith laughs from somewhere offscreen. _What makes you say that?_

 _Well, look at him,_ Old Derek says as Bailey toddles along, supported by Derek's hands. _He's like the little engine that could. Not letting a little thing like gravity keep him down.  
_  
 _I don't think he's like me. I think he's like_ _ **you**_ _,_ Meredith says.

 _Oh?_ Derek says.

 _Yes,_ Meredith says. _He's not admitting gravity_ _ **exists**_ _. Hey, does this battery light mean-_

The video winks out, and the memory is replaced by fuzzy, hissing snow.

* * *

"What do you mean, he's gone?" Meredith snaps on Wednesday afternoon, trying not to let panic overwhelm her. "How can he be gone?" She grabs her phone and calls Derek. Again. The phone rings and rings and rings and goes to voice mail. Again. Her hands start to shake. "Page him again!"

The frowning receptionist leans toward the microphone at her desk and hits the transmit button. "Derek Shepherd to reception, please," the receptionist says, and her voice echoes out of the PA speakers up and down the main hallway. "Derek Shepherd to reception."

An orderly, Rafael, trots out of the gym doors at the far end of the hall. He wears a grim look on his face, and he says, "I'm sorry, Dr. Grey. He's not in the showers," when he gets closer. He shakes his head. "If he's on the premises, he's doing a good job at hiding." He sighs. "I'll keep looking. Don't worry."

Meredith swallows as she watches Rafael retreat. "What if he's hurt somewhere, or …?" Wetness blankets her vision. "Please, he can't be gone. Page him again."

The receptionist brushes her long brown hair out of her face and gives Meredith a pitying look that Meredith hates. Her name tag reads Jenny. "Dr. Grey, do you want some water?"

"No, I don't want some water!" Meredith snaps. She paces. "I want my husband. I .…" She's panting. She's panicking. She knows it. She calls him again on her cell phone, and every time the phone rings without picking up, she sinks further into a black, black pit. "Where could he be? What do I do? Do I call the police?" She's called Stewart, and Derek's not there. She's called Melody. No Derek. She's called every freaking person tangentially related to Derek in her freaking contact list, and there's no sign of Derek **anywhere**. Her vision fuzzes. "I should call the police."

"He might have stepped out," Jenny says in a soft, soothing voice. She steps around the island and gives Meredith's shoulder a squeeze. "Let's not panic, yet, okay?"

"Stepped out," Meredith echoes with a snort. "Stepped out? He has brain damage. Why would he be allowed out the front door in the first place?"

"The patients here aren't prisoners," Jenny says, frown deepening. She glances at the sign-out sheet. Derek's scratchy signature fills the box in the "in" column, but his name is absent in the "out" column. "Someone should have asked him to sign out, though."

"So, anyone can just walk out whenever they want?" Meredith says, incredulous. "In a facility meant to handle patients with brain damage?"

The receptionist shakes her head. "We have different protocols for patients who've been declared mentally incompetent, which Dr. Shepherd isn't, and hasn't been in months."

Meredith calls him again. The phone rings. Rings. Rings. Voice mail. She slumps into one of the chairs in the waiting room. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry, I'm just .…" She blinks. The sterile fluorescent lights feel like knives against her pupils, and she bends over her knees to stare at the floor. She breathes in. She breathes out. In. Out. In. Out. "What do I do?" she croaks. "Where could he have gone? What if he's hurt somewhere? What if …?"

A hand finds her back, and Meredith sighs at the comforting gesture. Jenny sits beside her. "Give him a few more minutes," Jenny says. "His last appointment ended an hour ago. He hasn't been gone that long, yet. For all we know, he just went across the street to grab some coffee."

"He hates coffee," Meredith says. "And caffeine gives him headaches."

"Oh," Jenny says. "Well, there's a ton of other stores besides Starbucks over there in that shopping complex."

"Maybe, I should go look," Meredith says. She frowns, and she stands. She brushes off her slacks. Even if she shouldn't look, she needs something to do, or she's going to die of a nervous breakdown. Is it possible to die of a nervous breakdown? She imagines it is. Even if hasn't been in the past, she might manage it anyway. She's a trendsetter for bad luck. "I'll go look," she says. "Will you call me on my cell if he comes back here?"

"Absolutely," Jenny says.

* * *

He's not in the Starbucks, which Meredith expected, anyway. He's not in the bookstore, or the grocery store, or the hobby shop, or the bakery, or the bank, or the post office, or the dry cleaners. She tries him on his cell phone again. Nothing. Her last hope, she steps into the pet store.

The store is huge, sprawling aisle after sprawling aisle full of pet paraphernalia. There are two entire aisles just for dog toys. The air is cool and smells like cedar or something – bedding for pet rodents, she supposes. A woman with a tiny, trotting Pug on a leash walks past, hips swaying as she moves.

Meredith walks to the first cash register in a long row of registers, trying to keep herself from breaking into hysterics. "Have you seen a man, Caucasian, about five foot ten, rail thin, blue eyes, and graying but dark, curly hair? He's wearing … um. I think he's wearing a gray Bowdoin shirt. And jeans. Stonewashed, not indigo."

The cashier, a young mocha-colored woman, smiles, revealing pearly teeth. "I think so, maybe," she says. "That sounds like Mr. Dreamboat. He might still be here."

Meredith blinks. "Mr. Dreamboat?"

The cashier points toward the back of the store with a long, manicured red nail. "He stops in all the time to look at the kittens. Such a sweet man. Not very talkative, though."

"The kittens?" Meredith parrots. And then she registers the rest of what's been said. "Wait, **all the time**?"

"Yes," the woman says. "We keep a small selection of rescued cats and kittens along the back wall. We try to place them in homes. Mr. Dreamboat comes in two or three times a week."

That's Derek. That has to be Derek.

"Thanks," Meredith says. "I'll go look." She tries not to sprint, but she's not successful.

* * *

Eight windows line the back wall under a large scrawl of blue paint that says, "SAVE A LIFE. ADOPT!"

Derek's standing in front of the window at the end of the row, dragging his index finger along the glass. A tiny gray tabby kitten pounces on the glass, its little white paws chasing futilely after Derek's hand. Her shoes squeak on the floor tiles as she skids to a halt.

"Oh, my god, Derek," she says, and she wraps herself around him like plastic wrap.

Derek tenses in her arms, and he makes a noise of surprise, but he relaxes in moments, and then he turns, and he reciprocates. The kitten watches them through the glass with curious, twinkling green eyes. The warm feel of Derek's hands soaking through the back of her shirt, the hint of his breaths blustering through her hair, send everything inside flying loose. The panic. The worry. All of it slides away, leaving her a crying, shaking, relieved mess.

His mouth opens as he tries to say something. She hears a noise loitering in his throat that sounds like an M, like he's trying to say her name again. His Adam's apple bobbles as he swallows, and he tries again. And again. He hasn't been able to say Meredith for days, now, and he gives up. He says, "Hello," instead. And then he frowns. "What … wrong?"

"I didn't know where you were," she croaks.

"I'm … here," he says.

Something ignites like molten lava in her chest at his response, which she doubts is meant to sound patronizing, but it does. It sounds patronizing, and she wants to punch something, because he almost died, and he has no right to be patronizing about her getting upset about that. Her teeth clench.

"Yes, I can freaking see that, Derek."

He gives her a bewildered look, but he says nothing.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" she says.

His eyebrows creep toward his hairline. "Phone?" he says.

"Yes!" she snaps. "I called you like seventy-billion times."

He frowns, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his iPhone. He shakes his head. "I didn't got call." He sighs. "Got." He makes a frustrated noise. "I didn't … got." He gives up.

She snatches the phone from his hands, swipes it unlocked with a flick of her index finger, and navigates to call history. There's nothing there. What the freaking hell?

"You didn't believed?" he says in a soft, hurt tone.

God, damn it. God, damn it! She sighs, and she blows an unhappy breath through her pursed lips. The breeze sends her loose bangs flying. "Of course, I believed you," she said. She hands him back his phone. "I just .…"

His eyes darken. "Think I'm … too stupid … use?"

Which makes her deflate the rest of the way, and the burning fury floods out of her as fast as it arrived. "Of course, not. I .… I'm sorry. I don't know **what** I thought." She wipes tears from her eyes. "I was just so worried about you. I didn't know where you were. I thought you might be hurt. I thought you might be lost. I-"

"Pause, please," he says.

She clamps her mouth shut with effort. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

He thinks for a long moment. The seconds pass like glaciers. But he doesn't ask for clarification. He's getting a lot better at carrying conversations. He glances at his watch. "I'm sorry," he says. "I go … back … center … fifteen minute. You .… You are. You are. You … are." He stops to think for a second. "You're … early."

She glances at her watch and sighs. She is, she realizes. She **is** early. The ER was a ghost town today, and she had no elective surgeries scheduled, and Owen told her to skip out early if she wanted. Crap. She didn't even think of that. Derek has about two hours to kill between the end of his rehab appointments and the earliest she can pick him up. When she's running late, sometimes he waits even longer. She assumed he killed that time in the rehab center, but … why should he? It's not like he went to the other side of town. He walked across the freaking street. **Crap.**

"Derek," she says, swallowing, "I understand why you came over here. I do, but …."

"I'm not … allow?" he says. The hopeless look on his face doesn't escape her, and she can hear him in the back of her mind. _I try not … want things._

She squeezes her eyes shut. Her chest feels like something's crushing it. She wants to tell him no. She wants to tell him he's **not** allowed. If she were to let her panic win, she'd put him on a leash, and never let him out of her sight again. Except he's an adult, and he's at the point where he's healthy enough to be doing things like this. She **knows** he is. He's slow, and he has problems communicating, but taking a few seconds longer to think or talk isn't a crime worthy of spending life chained up in a safety bubble.

"You're not my prisoner," she says, echoing the receptionist. "I can't dictate your life." She pauses. "All I can do is make suggestions."

"You suggest … I don't … do this?" he says, cautious.

"No, I .…" She sighs, and she looks at the kitten he was playing with when she dashed into the aisle. Of all the things he could be doing, she thinks watching kittens in a pet store is something she can live with. "If this makes you happy, you should do it as much as you want." The little guy is still watching them. His mouth opens and closes and opens and closes like he's mewing at them for attention, but the glass is so thick she can't hear the result of his efforts. "But tell me where you're going if you leave the rehab center, okay? Call me." She pauses for him. "Or have the receptionist do it for you if you don't want to talk."

He stares at her for a long moment. "You … always … tell … where … you?"

She winces. Of course, he would zero in on that. "No," she says, opting for honesty. "No, I don't. But you're also not picking me up anywhere."

She can't tell if he's happy with that answer. "Okay," he says in a flat tone.

Crap. She wants to explain to him why she's crazy and overprotective, but when she opens her mouth, nothing comes out again. She wants him to know that her behavior is not a reflection of him and her perceptions of his mental faculties. She wants him to know that, but she can't say it. She just can't. Her heart squeezes, and she feels cold.

"Come on," she says with a sigh. "Let's just go." She grabs his hand, and he follows her out of the store. The kitten watches as they leave.

* * *

On the way home from the pet store, Derek's phone lets loose what seems like a million beeps all at once. He pulls the phone from his pocket and stares at it. He sighs. "It say … I h-h-have … miss call message, now," he tells her in a pointed tone.

Maybe, everything got caught in a relay somewhere or … something. Crap, she has no idea. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you," she says in a flat, upset tone. "I'm sorry, okay?"

He swallows, and he looks out the window, away from her. "Okay," he says.

* * *

Meredith has no idea when or where the hell he found it, but Derek's sitting at the dining room table on Thursday night, staring at the green flyer Todd gave her for the TBI parent meetings. Derek traces all the words with his fingers. He looks up at her with a question in his eyes.

She wants to tell him he needs to learn to ride the bus, and then he can do that. That's what she wants to say. But she opens her mouth, and, "I can't drive you to that," pops out, instead, and she feels like scum as she watches the hope slip out of his eyes.

He doesn't speak. Just nods. He leaves the flyer behind on the table, and leaves the room.

"Wait," she wants to say, but she can't say that either, because all she can think about is him trapped in a car somewhere, broken, needing help, but there is no help.

* * *

He won't get out of bed on Friday. She has to cancel his rehab appointments.

* * *

He's still in bed when she gets home. Melody says he hasn't moved all day. He didn't eat breakfast or lunch, and he won't eat dinner, either, even when Meredith brings it to him.

* * *

Richard and Stewart arrive on Saturday for a fishing outing – Stewart's first ever. Derek's off to a sluggish start this morning, though Meredith's thrilled by the mere fact that he's out of bed. He's still in the shower when the doorbell rings. Richard experiences a moment of surprise when he cranes his neck to look Stewart in the eyes.

"I know, I know," Stewart says as they shake hands in the entryway. "I look smaller on the television, right?"

And the ice is broken. Richard relaxes, a visible slump in his features. Stewart's good at that. Getting nervous fans to relax. Meredith can't count the number of times they've been out in public, and Stewart's managed to drag coherency out of overwhelmed _can-I-have-your-autograph_ babbling.

Richard laughs. "Just a bit."

"So, which whatchamacallits do you fix?" Stewart says.

Richard frowns. "Which whatchamacallits what?"

"He's a general surgeon like me," Meredith pipes in. "He fixes digestive whatchamacallits."

Richard nods. "Oh. Oh, yes. Those."

"So, if I still had an appendix, and it went kerplooey on this fishing trip, I'd be in good hands," Stewart says as they shuffle toward the living room area. "Good to know."

A comfortable silence fills the space between them all. "Sorry you guys have to wait," Meredith says with a sigh. "Derek's … still a little off after last week."

Richard shakes his head. "Not a problem."

"Nope," Stewart says. He collapses on the living room couch with a groan. "And just think. After today, I might be an outdoors person."

Meredith snorts. "I don't think you just suddenly become one of those."

"Maybe, if we made it a contest," Stewart says. "I mean, I do love to win."

"What?" Meredith says. "Like whoever's an outdoor person first wins?"

Stewart nods as he strokes his pointy chin. "Yes. Yes, little Amazon. That might just work."

"But everybody here already likes the outdoors," Richard says. "I think."

"Pfft," Stewart says. "Details." And then he frowns. "So, what do you mean by off, exactly?"

Meredith shrugs. "He's been tired. And he's been having more problems than usual with talking." She doesn't mention the fact that Derek still can't say Meredith. Or that he's been crying on and off all week. That Derek's miserable. She bites her lip. "He really needs some friends right now, so thank you for doing this."

"This isn't a chore for me," Stewart says. "No need to thank me."

"I know," Meredith says. "But …."

She wants Derek to be happy again. Like he was before this stupid migraine. She needs it.

Richard gives her a discerning glance. "We'll take good care of him," Richard says in a soft, soothing tone.

Meredith sniffs. "Thanks. Thank you."

* * *

When the three musketeers return sans fish – though according to Stewart, they caught four – Derek's smiling again. Not big smiles, but even tiny smiles are better than the misery he's been carrying around with him all week. Both Richard and Stewart stay for dinner, and between Stewart the tireless joke generator, Richard the endless anecdote machine, and the happy chatter from the kids, it's a pleasant night all around for everyone, she thinks. Derek doesn't talk much, and Meredith doesn't miss the wistful expression on his face as he follows Stewart and Richard's back-and-forth like it's a tennis match, but Derek still smiles at the jokes, and at his children, and Meredith thinks this is a bit better than before. An improvement. It has to be.

When Meredith gets up to grab a fresh wine bottle for her and Derek, a glass of water for Richard, and a fresh beer for Stewart, though, Stewart follows her into the kitchen with all the stealth of a buffalo. He corners her by the fridge, a towering tree, and he frowns at her. She glances up at him, eyebrows raised askance.

"Meredith, you in danger, girl," Stewart says without preface.

Meredith snorts. "A _Ghost_ reference? Really?"

"I'll have you know that's my least-hated chick flick!" Stewart says. "If I'm going to be forced to watch a chick movie, that's the one I want to be forced to watch."

" _Ghost_? Seriously?"

The only reason she even knows the reference is that her freshman college roommate had a thing for Patrick Swayze. An irritating, obsessive, unhealthy thing to include posters, an extensive movie collection, a teensy bit of stalking, and constant regurgitation of obscure Swayze factoids. Which is why Meredith also knows he worked at a rodeo in his teens, liked Arabian horses, and was a skilled ice skater. She shakes her head, remembering Lana babbling about that. Ugh.

"Do you really have room to talk about my taste in entertainment, given your choice in literature?" Stewart says, breaking her out of her anti-nostalgic thought spiral.

Meredith gapes. "And just what do you know about my choice in literature?"

"Well, unless Sarah's been lying to me, I'd say a great deal more than I ever wanted to," he says. He huffs a breath that sends his wispy hair flying. "Bodice rippers? Amazons read bodice rippers?"

Meredith shakes her head. "I prefer to refer to them as porn for women. And don't tell me you don't watch any porn, because I'll know you're a lying hypocrite. The sky is blue, and men watch porn."

Stewart's jaw drops. Silence stretches for a moment. And then his whole body jerks with the force of his guffaw. "Oh, little Amazon, as if I could ever forget why I love you so." He slaps his chest over his heart. "Touché. Touché."

She folds her arms. "So, what am I in danger about?"

Stewart sighs, and his levity drips away into seriousness. Concern. "Derek. He's feeling a little … trapped. And I'm not sure he has any idea how to articulate that to you."

"Oh," Meredith says. "Well, how did he articulate it to **you**?"

"He didn't, Meredith, but I can recognize enough of myself in him to be able to figure out where his head's at."

"Oh," Meredith repeats.

"Derek's gotten healthy enough that he's remembering how to be a big-picture thinker," Stewart says. "I think it's really sinking in for him that there are certain things he's never going to be able to do again. Things he remembers doing before, which means-"

"He feels robbed."

"Exactly. And I'm worried. I'm worried for him, and I'm worried for you."

"Well, what should I do?"

"I think my spectacular post-injury meltdown is evidence enough I shouldn't be offering advice on how to handle this," Stewart says. "I can spot meltdown precursors like a champ, though."

"He's been really upset, lately," Meredith says. "One thing, the talking thing, I can't fix for him."

"Implying there's at least one thing you can?"

"Yes," Meredith says. She bites her lip and looks up at him. "But … I'm so scared. I don't want him to leave me. Everybody leaves me."

"Oh, come on, now, that man is smitten with you," Stewart says, misunderstanding her. "You're the Prince Charming to his Sleeping Beauty. He won't go anywhere." He sticks out his tongue and makes a face like he's tasted something revolting. He shakes his head. "And, now, you've made me speak girl. I need some beer."

She snorts. "That's what I came out here to get in the first place. There's some more of your favorite in the fridge."

"Thanks," Stewart says, stepping past her to grab his mouthwash.

Meredith watches him hobble back to the dining room table, frowning. She thought Derek was better. With the teensy smiles after fishing. But … now, she wonders, if this is the eye of the hurricane.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Notes:**

Hello! I know a lot of you are probably busy with Nurburgring today, but I figured I'd post this early early today, since I'm busy this evening. I haven't heard from as many people on the last two chapters - I'm hoping it's not because I've scared people off! Thank you so very much for the lovely feedback I did receive though! You guys always make my day :) I've been totally flattered by everybody trying to scramble for solutions to MerDer's problems - I love that I've gotten you all this involved!

* * *

 **Week twenty-five.**

Maggie takes the kids on Sunday afternoon at Meredith's behest. Meredith needs to talk to Derek with zero chances for interruption. There's never going to be a good time to talk with him, and she can't keep waiting for one and letting him fester all the while.

He hit his tolerance – not being able to see his family. He took the motor control issues, and the lack of memories, and the inability to talk right, and the migraines, and the constant fatigue, and the slow reflexes and thinking, and the noise and light sensitivity all with an almost superhuman level of humility. Except Derek's always been a family-centric individual, and he's not superhuman.

Just when he thought he was coming to terms with all the other bad things, hell, even making jokes about them, he got a migraine bad enough to send him to the hospital, bad enough to leave him in agony for more than two full days, and feeling like crap for a week after that, via a trigger he had no control over whatsoever. To cap it off, she told him he couldn't visit his family on Thanksgiving because of that awful pain that he can't avoid and can't help, and that was it for him. His last straw. Everything else since then – his sudden inability to say her name, the self-torture over home movies, the pet store debacle, the stupid parent-meeting flyer – just ripped the wound open wider, and he's been bleeding ever since.

He can't see his family, he can't say what he wants, he can't be independent, and he's just done with it all.

There's **never** going to be a good time to talk with him.

She tries to work up her nerve.

* * *

Meredith sits on the couch, curled up under a blanket with Derek in the late afternoon, trying to find an iota of courage to talk with him. Really freaking talk. Derek watches a basketball game on mute, and she pretends to read her book, but she's been stuck on the same page for an hour, now.

When Derek's phone chirps, he pulls it from his pocket. His curious look shifts into a dreading one, but he picks it up, anyway. He hits the speaker button.

"Hello," Derek says.

"Hi, Derek!" Lizzie says. And then she adds a chipper, "Hi, Mere, if you're listening!"

Meredith clenches her teeth. There's no freaking way this is going to go well. Lizzie is Meredith's favorite of Derek's sisters as far as phone conversations with Derek go. Lizzie's not as good as Carolyn is at sticking to short sentences, but she tries to accommodate, and her mistakes are just that. Mistakes. Not snotty, willful ignorance, like Nancy. But Derek hasn't talked to his family since Meredith told him he couldn't fly, and Meredith hasn't called to cancel, because in her head, he's going to ride the train if she can get rid of her internal mute button. Which means Lizzie's going to want to talk about Thanksgiving, which, as far as Lizzie knows, Derek's flying to, but Derek knows he's not, and the second he's asked about the trip he thinks he's not taking, the meltdown will commence.

"Hi, Lizzie," Meredith says. "Yes, I'm here, but … now's not a really good time for us to chat."

Derek frowns at Meredith.

"Oh," Lizzie says. "I'm so sorry. I can call back if you'd like."

"I …." Derek swallows. "I … can … talk." He looks at Meredith. "I try. I try … alone if … now … b-bad."

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. And, now, she's stuck in her freaking lie. "I'm just …." Meredith scrapes for ideas that will let her stay in the room and chat. "I'm expecting a really important call on my cell. I … might have to step out."

"Oh, that's okay," Lizzie says. "I'll be quick. I'm just calling to find out if you can bring a pie or two with you when you come out. We'll have so many people! Will you be able to get through airport security with pies? I'm not sure on the rules."

Derek looks at Meredith, questions filling his eyes. He has no idea what the hell Lizzie said. And Meredith really, really, **really** doesn't want to translate.

"I'm sorry," Lizzie says, filling the silence. "That was too much, wasn't it?"

Derek swallows. "Lizzie, I …." He closes his eyes. "I have. Bad. W … w … week. Please, less."

"Derek, what happened?" Lizzie says, voice dripping with concern.

"I …. I …," he says. He grimaces, and stares at the ceiling with a _please, stop happening to me_ look that breaks Meredith's heart. His mouth opens and closes. "I go …." He sighs with frustration, and he thinks. And thinks. To Lizzie's credit, she waits, patient and silent, for Derek to finish his fumbling. "I go … hos … hospital …. I have …." His voice trails away, and he thinks some more. He squeezes his eyes shut. "I can't say this w-word. I …."

"He had a migraine, Lizzie," Meredith interjects. "He's been having a hard time talking since then."

"Oh, Derek, I'm so sorry," Lizzie says. "Are you feeling better, now?"

Derek swallows. "Y … yes. But talk. Bad."

"Well, I won't chat your ear off, then," Lizzie says.

"What was ask?" Derek says.

"Will you bring some pie when you visit?"

Silence stretches. Meredith closes her eyes as she sighs with dread. Crap. Derek swallows, but he says nothing as his eyes redden and start to leak.

"Derek?" Lizzie says. A slapping sound floods over the line. "Shit, I didn't mean to interrupt, if you're thinking. Sorry."

"I'm …," Derek manages. He sniffs. "I'm …."

"Are you **crying**?" Lizzie says.

"Lizzie," Meredith says, grabbing the phone. "I'm so sorry. We'll have to call you back, okay?"

"Okay," says Lizzie in a faint, bewildered tone.

Meredith hangs up Derek's phone, but before she can say a word, her beeper goes off. "Damn it, not **now** ," she hisses. She reads the message. One of her patients is having a bad reaction to some medication, and Dr. Peters wants her to call him. She needs to take this. "I'll be right back," she tells Derek, who's falling apart, and she dashes to her office, where she can connect to Seattle Grace's records system and read the chart Dr. Peters is using to make his decisions.

* * *

When she gets the issue with Dr. Peters settled and comes back into the living room, Derek's gone. His cell phone still sits, cupped in the gap between the left and middle sofa cushions. She blinks. He must be in the bedroom. He was upset. He tends to retreat there when he's upset. Except when she opens the bedroom door, he's not there. He's not in the master bathroom, either.

"Derek?" she calls in a voice that will carry through the whole house, and she waits. Not a peep in response. "Derek?" Nothing.

She checks every room in the house. He's nowhere. He's not in the backyard, either.

Derek's gone.

* * *

She forces reason into all the crevices panic tries to fill. Derek can't drive, and he has a bum leg. He can walk at a good, uneven clip, but he can't run well. They live in the middle of nowhere. There are only so many meaningful places he can make it to on foot, and Meredith wasn't out of the room long enough for a taxi to show up in her absence, which means he's walking somewhere.

She darts out the front door and pauses on the stoop, looking around. The sky is gray. The air is drizzly outside, and a chilly, wet breeze blows. The clouds are dark overhead, threatening rain. Birds chirp and cackle in the naked trees. The only remaining green covers the hemlocks and cedar trees and other evergreens, but the alder, maple, and birch trees are all dead.

There's a fresh footprint and accompanying cane print in the mud before the mud turns into grass, and the footprint points in the direction of the lake. Pre-accident Derek used to go to the lake all the time to get perspective. She swallows, squares her shoulders, and heads in that direction at a jog.

* * *

She finds Derek sitting on the dock by the lake, legs dangling off the edge over the gray, choppy water. He stares at nothing, head tipped in the general direction of a flock of ducks paddling across the water, and he's crying again. Deep, rending sobs that make her heart ache.

The water slaps against the dock struts as she sits down hip to hip with him, the only sound beside his misery. She wraps her arms around him. He leans against her, and he says something. A choking collection of syllables that might make a word if he weren't so upset, but as it is, she has no freaking hope of understanding him, and she doesn't pretend to. Patronizing him will only make this whole mess worse.

She watches a heron glide over the dreary water while Derek cries himself out. The heron lands in the reeds by the shore. Her throat hurts, and her chest feels like an elephant stomped on it. He can't see his family. He can't say what he wants. He can't be independent. Except he can. He **can** see his family, and he **can** be independent, and, maybe, knowing those two things will be enough to make the talking thing tolerable to him again. Maybe, she can snap him out of his tailspin if she can just buck up and find some freaking courage.

Maybe.

She lets him get the griefquake out of his system, and she waits until he's quiet in her arms, breathing soft and even beside her. She swallows as she rubs his back. Find some freaking courage, she tells herself. Find some freaking courage, Grey. She's terrified that he'll leave, but … she considers his misery. If she doesn't talk to him about her stupid phobia, she's upping the chances that he **will** leave, because he's sliding straight into slit-his-wrists depression. She can see the cliff. His feet are already over the edge. And that's the thing that finally convinces her. The idea that she might be pushing him out the door on life.

"Derek, I need to talk to you," she says. "I know you're having problems saying things right now." She's careful to pause for a little after every sentence to give him a chance to keep up. "You don't need to reply if it's too hard for you." Pause. "But I need you to listen, and I need you to try and understand me, because this is important." Longer pause. She tightens her arm, squeezing him, and says, "Okay?"

He sits up, pulling himself off her shoulder. He rubs his eyes with his hands. He thinks for a long moment, and he sighs. "Okay," he says in a faint, tired voice. "I … try."

When he glances at her, his expression slays her. _I'd do anything for you_ he doesn't say, but she can read it all over his face, and she's messed this whole thing up. She didn't ever want to, didn't mean to, but she did, and guilt constricts until she finds it hard to breathe.

"I have a fear of abandonment," she blurts.

She looks at him, gauging his face. From the movement of his lips, he's going to give this a shot. Replying. Even though she told him he didn't have to. And so she waits for him. Gives him the time that he needs.

"You say… this," he says. After several false starts, he spits out, "Before. You say … before."

"I did," she says. "Do you understand what that means?"

He closes his eyes. "You … scare," he manages in halting syllables. "People … leave?"

"Yes, but it's deeper than that," she replies. "Way more visceral."

"What is … visceral?"

She pats her belly. "In the gut," she says. "Remember how you felt on top of the Space Needle?"

"Yes," he says. Syllables stick in his throat, but he manages to collect a few together and say, "Yes, I … scare."

"That's visceral," she says. "When your whole body has a feeling instead of just your head and your heart." Like right now.

"Okay," he says slowly, oblivious to her spiraling thoughts. "Your … scare … visceral."

She pinches the bridge of her nose. Just keep going. Keep going. Keep going. He's being a good sport about this despite being about as in the mood to talk as she is to stuff bamboo shoots under her fingernails. He's trying for her. He's trying so hard. She can offer him the same courtesy. Can't she?

"When I was about Zola's age, my parents' marriage fell apart." Pause. "My mom took me from my dad, and my dad married someone else." Pause. "I grew up with no dad."

"Okay," he says.

"I was in a string of relationships that ended with the guy leaving me."

"Your first … sex," Derek says. He thinks, several false starts loitering in his throat. "He leave."

"Yes, he was one," Meredith says.

Derek looks at his knees. "Then I leave."

"Yes," she says, opting not to pull punches. "And my mother died." Pause. "And my fake-mommy died." Pause. "And one of my best friends died-"

"George?" Derek says.

"Yes, George. And Izzie left." Pause. "And Lexie and Mark died," she continues. "And then Cristina left." Pause. "Everybody leaves me, Derek. Everybody."

Derek looks at her. "You scare … more leave?"

"I'm scared **you'll** leave, Derek," Meredith says. "I'm scared about **you**."

He blinks like she's socked him in the face, and he's been knocked stupid. Silence stretches, but his mouth is moving, so she waits for him. "I don't … want leave," he says. He looks her in the eyes when he adds, "I … n … n … **never** leave," with such vehemence that her heart aches. "M … m …." He looks at her like he's desperate to get something out. "M …." He looses a frustrated, upset sigh, and he rolls his eyes at the sky. While his lips move, he stares at the clouds like he's bargaining. _Let me say this one thing. Please, just let me say it._ "Maybe … I … stupid. Before. But …."

She swallows, blinking tears out of her eyes when she realizes what he's saying, and she hugs him. He grunts as her arms close around him. This new facet of him, this willingness to accept culpability for old mistakes and apologize for them, surprises her every time it pops up. She kisses his shoulder through his shirt.

"That's not what I meant. I **know** you won't leave, not like that," she assures him, and she does know. For the first time in her life, she knows that he won't ever leave her. She's not making herself trust him, not giving him the benefit of the doubt. There's no doubt at all. For all this accident destroyed, it's healed some broken things, too, and that's … amazing. "But, Derek, this is the part I really need you to hear me on," she says. "Can you listen for a moment?"

"Okay," he says, tone cautious.

"You've been shot." She splays her palm against his chest. "You were shot here."

He nods. "You tell … before."

"Yes, but I didn't tell you that you almost died," she says. "For several minutes, I thought you **were** dead." He frowns. "You almost died after the plane crash, too. I was convinced you were dead until I found you." She pauses, letting him digest that. She swallows, and she wipes fresh tears from her eyes. "And then you got into the car accident. You left in the morning after breakfast. You kissed me, and you told me to wait for you, and I didn't hear from you again. I kept calling and calling, and you didn't pick up."

She realizes she let her words get away from her, but he didn't ever say pause. He thinks for a long moment. He doesn't ask for clarification. She wants to cheer him on while he churns over what she's said. He's gotten so much better at listening. Maybe, not talking, but listening and comprehending normal conversation flow, barring unknown words and expressions. He's gotten so freaking good at it.

"This why … you scare at … pet store?" he concludes, struggling with every syllable.

More tears leak, and she wipes them away. She hates that he thinks he's so terrible at conversing when all she hears when she talks to him is a miracle. Him being able to reason, and make connections, and draw conclusions. Over and over and over again. This conversation itself is a freaking miracle.

"Yes. That's why I got scared," she confirms. She swallows. "When you got into that accident, the police came to my door that evening-"

"After I say … wait?" he says.

"Yes. After that," she says. "The police told me you were dead. I went to the hospital thinking you were dead."

Silence stretches. He looks over the lake with red eyes. And then he shifts. His jeans rustle against the wooden dock slats. This time, it's him, wrapping himself around her. Comforting her. He pulls her against him. His right arm might be weak, but his left? His left is **strong** and he's iron against her, rubbing her back. He rests his chin on top of her head.

"I'm here," he says in a soft murmur that rumbles against his breastbone.

"I know you're here," she says into his shirt. "I'm so glad you're here." She clutches a tent of soft cotton between her fingertips. "But I'm terrified that someday you won't be." She pauses. "Not because you want to go – I know you don't want to go – but because you'll die, and I'll be alone again."

He swallows. "You scare … I die," he says.

"I'm **terrified** , Derek," she confesses. "It's irrational, and stupid, and **crazy** , but that's how I feel, and I can't help it."

"It visceral," he says.

"Right."

"It …." His mouth moves, and he thinks. "It … not crazy."

He rubs her back in soft, soothing strokes that make her eyelids dip. She looses a shivery, upset sigh, and his arms tighten. He's so warm. And he's so solid. And this is what she needs.

"Can I … help?" he says. "Please … I want … help. Help. To help." _I like to help you, Mere,_ she can hear him say in that soft, reverent tone of his.

She pulls back from him enough to look into his eyes. "Just be here. Like you are now," she says. She looses a bitter laugh. "And try not to take it personally when I act like I belong in an insane asylum."

"I … lake without … tell," he says in a guilty tone. "I scare …."

"Shh," she says. "It's water under the thing or whatever. Okay?"

He doesn't speak. He only nods. The wind whistles through the reeds, and the waves lap, and they sit and watch the ducks bob and honk on the surface of the lake for a while, quiet, sharing each other's space. She sighs against him. She feels … liberated. She wants him to feel that, too, and he's handling all of this well enough that she's found what feels like a freaking mountain of courage.

"I think you can see your family," she says.

His gaze snaps from the lake to her. She sees comprehension in his eyes. Surprise, but comprehension.

"I can't go with you," she continues. "I'd have to fly with the kids. But I think you could take the train. You'd have to learn how, first, but I think you could do it."

He blinks. "I can … family?" he says. His breaths tighten. "I …."

She squeezes his shoulder. "If you can learn the train, yes," she says. "I think you can go to those parenting meetings, too."

His eyebrows raise. "I … train there?"

She shakes her head. "No, you'd need to learn how to take the bus for that."

"If … learn, I … go … alone?" he says in a cautious, hopeful tone.

"I think so," she says. She smiles at him through wet eyes. Pulls her fingers through his hair. "You don't need me to take you everywhere. Not anymore." She swallows. "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I'm sorry I let you be upset for so long. That was wrong of me."

He's silent for a long time before he says, "This … not … new … idea?"

She looks at her knees. "No."

"How … long?"

"Consciously? Sarah clued me in a day after I told you you couldn't fly. So … a week. Just a week. No longer, I swear."

He doesn't move his body. His hip still touches hers. But he pulls his arm from around her shoulder, leaving her bereft. She can't read the look on his face, but it's nothing good. He stares at the water.

"Can you tell me what you're thinking?" she says.

He glances at her, and then back to the water. "No. No, I don't .…" He struggles with a syllable. "I … can't." He blinks, and he's crying again. Crying. "When can ever?" he croaks. He swallows, and he wipes his eyes. "I have so much but it … stuck." He shakes his head. "It **always** stuck!" he says, a yell of frustration that echoes through the drizzle, across the sloshing lake. The ducks honk in solidarity in the distance.

He slides back from the edge of the dock and uses his cane to lever himself into a standing position, and she follows him into vertical. He rubs his eyes, swiping his index finger and thumb across his eyelids toward his nose. He sniffs. He swallows.

"I … trust," he says in a deep, dark tone as he shifts from foot to foot. His mouth opens and closes. "I … trust. I trust. I …." A tiny growl of frustration loiters in his throat, but he doesn't need to finish his thought for her to understand what he's trying to say. "I …."

Coming from anyone else, what he's saying is a good thing. He trusts her. He trusts. Except knowing how he talks, now, he means trusted. He trusted her. Past tense. As in a thing that used to be true, but isn't any longer. A pit hollows out her stomach, and for a moment, she's not sure what to say.

"I know," she says. "I know you did, and I'm sorry I betrayed that and screwed everything up. I'm so sorry."

His lower lip quivers. "You make … me think … I can't."

"I know," she says, the words a soft confession. She wants to crawl into a hole and never come out again.

"There … so much … I can't," he says. He pulls his fingers through his hair, shifting from foot to foot like he wants to bolt. He wipes his face, leaving red, irritated skin behind. "Why … take from me … this … can?"

The hurt betrayal she hears in his tone makes her want to cry. He's not unjustified. He's not unfairly persecuting her. This isn't like one of those fights they used to have where he's feeling entitled to things she doesn't owe him and hasn't given him, and he treats her like dirt because of it. The ones he never apologized for, the ones that ended more from conflict exhaustion than anything else. This is all her. She did this. She took advantage of his ignorance for her own gain, and she strung him along in misery, and she did this.

She did it.

"I was scared," she says. "I'm **still** scared. I'm sorry I made you hurt for my insecurities. I'm sorry I broke your trust. It kills me that I did. I don't know what else I can say."

"I …." He looks her in the eyes. "I need … alone."

"You want me to leave?" she says.

"Yes," he says. His voice breaks into a croak when he adds, "Please. Please, I need …."

"Okay," she says. She pulls her cell phone from her pocket and hands it to him.

He frowns at it, but he takes it without a word and stuffs the phone in his pocket. She shakes with gratitude that she doesn't need to explain why she did that, that she can't in her right mind leave him out here alone without any way to call for help if he needs it. She already feels like scum for handing it to him in the first place. She hates her crazy. She hates that she's let it infect their marriage with disease.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, and she leaves him standing there on the dock. Alone. Like he wants.

* * *

When she gets home to her empty, silent house, she crawls into bed, pulls the covers over her head, and she lies there, wishing she was tired enough to fall asleep. Instead, she's awake, and all she can think about is how she's scary and damaged, and why can't she **not** be? She hasn't felt this crappy about her issues since … ever. She's so upset, she can't even cry. She's just … numb.

* * *

She snaps out of her miserable fugue when she feels the mattress depress with his weight, and he sits beside her. She flips back the covers to squint at the clock. The sun has set, and the room is dark except for a triangular shaft of light spilling in from the hallway onto the bed. The clock reads seven. Maggie's due to bring the kids back any minute, now.

Meredith looks at him. All he's doing is sitting there. Next to her. Staring into space. "Derek?" she says, sitting up.

"You … scare," he says in a hesitant, soft voice, like he's only barely convinced himself. He puts his hand on her shoulder, and he looks at her with an upset expression, which only makes her lose it. She doesn't deserve him trying to come up with ways to defend her that mash this whole horrid mess back into his naive Meredith-is-great-and-wouldn't-hurt-me worldview. What she did has no freaking defense. But then he smashes her assumptions to pieces when he looks her in the eye and says, "You hurt me."

"I know," she says.

"You **hurt** me," he repeats. He swallows. "But … I understand you … scare."

She blinks, and tears jag down her face. "I want you to have what you want," she says. "I do. I want you to be happy. Even if it scares the crap out of me." She sniffs. "But … it does. It scares the crap out of me. It really scares the crap out of me."

"It visceral," he says.

She nods. "Yes."

He stares at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. And then he kisses her. He's warm and there and alive, and kissing her, and she has no idea how this conversation turned in this direction. He looks at her like she's his world, and he kisses her again. "Thank … you," he says, a throaty, thick rumble of emotion.

"For what?" she says, incredulous. "Acting nuts and keeping you prisoner?"

"For … tell me … scare," he says. The silence stretches. She has no idea what to say. "I hurt," he says. "You hurt me." He pulls her into his arms. "But … I'm here," he adds in a quiet voice. His grip tightens around her, and he rubs her back. "You hurt, too."

"Derek," she croaks, and the room blurs.

"I don't want … you scare," he says. His lower lip quivers when he looks at her. "I'm sorry … you scare." He looks at the ceiling while he thinks. After two false starts, he manages to say, "I try …." His voice trails away, and he sighs. He starts again. "I try … help you … not be … scare."

She can't hold any of it in anymore. He lets her grieve in his arms. For the first time in years, not just by offering her his presence as a lifeline, but by being part of the solution. He wants to be part of the solution. He wants to be her husband. He wants to be able to take care of her. But he's not working himself up to it anymore. He's there already. And the miracles keep piling up.

Because Derek didn't sink. He swam.

* * *

He strips for her again that night. The first time since his migraine. He slides into bed, and she scoots closer, pressing her abdomen to his side until her skin touches his. He watches her with a question in his gaze.

"You know what makes me feel better, sometimes?" she says.

He shakes his head. She buries her fingers in his hair and leans to kiss him. A soft, pleased rumble loiters in his throat. Since she finished crying in his arms, he's hardly talked at all. He's talked out, and he can't do it anymore, today.

"Can I cheer you up?" she whispers.

He nips her lower lip as she pulls away, and he pulls her into a tight hug, preventing her escape. She takes this as a yes, and she gives him a sly grin. She rests her palm against his chest, and then she slides her hand down, pushing the sheet back as she goes. She stops just past his navel. She hasn't touched him since before his migraine, and the last time they spent intimate time together, that was more haphazard frottage than a real hand job. She doesn't want to overstep.

"This is okay, right?" she says.

He swallows, and he has to think for a long moment before he says, "What …?"

She kisses his chest. "Just say no if you don't like this," she says. "Or knock on the headboard or something."

He laughs, and she slides her hand lower. The sheet scrunches down farther, collecting at his thighs. He's flaccid. His skin is warm and feather soft. She cups him, hefting his weight in her hand. He takes a deep breath, and she pauses, lets him get used to this. She sits up so she'll have better leverage.

"Can you do me a small favor?" she says.

He raises his eyebrows in question.

"Reach into your nightstand drawer. There's a little tube with a pointy cap in there. I want it." She laughs at his incredulous expression. "Trust me," she adds, and she winks. His expression shifts again, and she can't help but snort at his, _Of course, I trust you; look what I'm letting you hold_ look.

Without further protest, he does what she asks, rummaging around in his drawer with one hand while she pets him to keep him stoked. He finds what she wants, and she takes a moment to smile over the fact that he's grabbed it with his right hand. He's getting good with that grip. After she takes his bounty, she unscrews the cap and squirts a large dollop onto her hand. Then she tosses the tube aside, where it lands on the bedspread, forgotten.

She starts slow. A soft, gliding stroke down his length with her lube-covered hand. With her other hand, the one she cups him with, she changes gears and does one of his absolute favorite things before: a gentle tug, followed by rolling his balls like a pair of eggs in her hand. From the sharp inhalation she hears, that's still a favorite thing, and she makes a mental note to include that in future erotic outings.

"Is this okay?" she says.

He nods.

He's inexperienced, with almost no built-up tolerance to touch, and she arouses him in a matter of minutes. She doesn't want to throw her entire arsenal of dirty tricks at him right now, not when he's so new. She focuses on the tried-and-true classics. She wraps her thumb and index finger around him like she's making an okay sign, and she pumps him. When it seems like he's settling into that sensation, getting used to it, she changes the game, switching to hand over hand, base to tip, alternating. When one hand reaches his tip, she starts at his base with the other hand, a constant barrage, and he makes a lovely groan.

"This is sort of what sex is going to feel like," she tells him.

He arcs back, pressing himself into her hands. He swallows. "Sort … of?"

"Oh," she says, and she gives him an evil grin. "Sex is much, much better." She presses his head to her palm, and she wrenches her hand and wrist like she's trying to unscrew the cap off a jar. He makes a surprised, desperate sound, and then she hears a thwack. The whole headboard vibrates. She stops and pulls her hands away, frowning, and looks up in time to see him yanking a hand away from the headboard with a wince. "Not okay?"

He stares at the ceiling. "No," he manages, panting. "I'm … fine. Surprise." He swallows. "What is … this?"

She smiles, puts her hand back against his slick, hot skin, and unscrews another imaginary bottle cap. "This?"

His whole body twitches. "Yes …. Yes … this."

"I don't really have a name for it," she says. She resumes hand over hand. "What should I call it?"

He laughs. A word gets stuck in his throat. He has to try again. "I … can't talk. W … w … w … **without**. This. Happen."

She grins at his silly joke. "How about the Marmalade Jar?" she says. "Sounds both metaphorical and special."

He grunts. "What is … m … m …."

"Marmalade?" she says. "Um … orange … fruity … stuff? Crap, I don't know." She frowns. "Maybe it's lade made of marma."

"No," he says. "M … m … meta."

"Metaphorical means … an artsy comparison," she says. "Kinda. Calling the sun a diamond in the sky would be a metaphor." Or calling an orgasm _la petite mort._

"Oh," he says in a low, deep, wavering syllable that turns the single syllable into about three in a row, and she realizes she has no idea if he's replying or articulating his excruciating pleasure. He thrusts against her hands with his lower body, surrendering to instinct.

She stops to press him back into the mattress, her hand to his belly. "Bad man," she says with a soft laugh.

He pants, discombobulated and aroused. He says nothing. She thinks maybe she's dragged him beyond coherence. She looks down at him, at his erection pointing toward his belly button. On a whim, she grips him, leans close, and kisses the sensitive head. While he doesn't thrust, his lower body bounces a little like he's having a hard time holding still. She licks him like a lollipop. Another noise that could be described as a multisyllabic, "Oh," winds from his throat. A blow job is a way, way big step that would stomp a baby step to smithereens, so she leaves things there and pulls away.

"So, is Marmalade Jar your favorite thing, now?" she says, and she does it again for him. A soft, choking grunt catches in his throat, and he flails at nothing with his hands. He yanks tents of fitted sheet into each clutching fist. His neck arcs back, and he stares at the headboard behind him with glassy eyes, panting. "How about another?" she says. When she follows through, his whole body tenses like a tripwire, and an almost-pained-sounding moan trickles from his lips. His erection kicks into her hand, and the warm, wet result of his release jets against her palm.

After she wipes her hand off with a tissue, she sinks back to the mattress next to him. She kisses him. He peers at her through hooded, sated eyes. "So, did it work?" she says.

He blinks. "What …?"

She pulls her fingers through his hair. "Did I make you feel better?"

He snorts with tired laughter. The skin around his eyes crinkles with genuine pleasure as he smiles at her. He pushes off the mattress with his elbows to prop himself up. He kisses her. Again, again, again.

"Seven," he says in a soft murmur, which on any other day she might consider an insult, but given how the day started, she'll take anything over a four as a mark in the win column. "Yes."

"Good," she says, only to giggle-shriek with surprise as he takes control, pushes her down, and flips so he's straddling her, looking down at her, instead of the other way around.

He dips low, and she feels his tongue on her nipple. "My turn," he says in a low, throaty rumble against her skin that makes her insides tighten.

"Okay," she says, smiling as she settles in for the ride.

* * *

Derek's quiet in the car on the way to rehab on Monday morning, but it's a comfortable silence that says he's just tired and doesn't want to talk, not that he's stewing about not being able to do so. She doesn't drop him off at the front door of the center like usual. She parks in the parking lot and unclips her seatbelt as soon as she turns off the engine. She realizes he's watching her, and she frowns.

"What?" she says.

"You come … in?" Derek says in a boggled tone.

She shakes her head. "No. Well, yes, but only so I can talk with Dean. I want to tell him to work on travel with you."

Derek's fingers tighten around the door handle. "Today?"

"Yes," Meredith says with a nod. She wasted a week on her phobia, and now he only has three weeks of rehab sessions left to learn and practice before the break for Thanksgiving. She intends to send him out on the weekends to practice, but he can't practice what he hasn't learned in the first place. She swallows. "You might need to push me through the door, though. I'm having this problem where I'm so nervous I can't get my feet to move."

A slow smile stretches across his face before he shakes his head and erases it. "Please, not … scare," he says. He's still having more problems than usual talking, and she hasn't heard him say Meredith in over a week, now. It's like that stupid migraine broke something. She doesn't have time to dwell on it, though, because Derek leans forward and reaches across the parking brake to cup her face. He looks her in the eyes with a serious blue gaze. "I call if … go."

"You realize you're just giving me license to have a panic attack if you **don't** call me, right?"

He swallows. "I call. I … let you know." He clears his throat and thinks. "I not … go. If no call."

A lump forms in her throat. "I really love you," she says. "Thanks for dealing with my crazy."

"It not … crazy," he insists.

"Well, **you're** not scared," she says. And he's almost died three times in six years. Four, if she gives bonus points for v-fib during heart surgery.

But he taps the left side of his head and grins with a sudden warm levity that reaches his eyes. "Brain damage," he says. And he winks.

She can't help but laugh. She missed the self-deprecating jokes.

* * *

"I need a freaking distraction," Meredith announces as she plops down at their table in the cafeteria with her tray. Maggie and Callie look up at her from their miscellaneous lunches. Maggie has a salad, and Callie has a …. "Callie, what the hell are you eating?"

Callie frowns at her bowl full of pale blocks. "It's tofu."

"Tofu?" Meredith says. "Just … tofu?"

"Just tofu," Callie says.

"Doesn't tofu usually get disguised a little?" Meredith says. She picks at her greasy, gooey hospital pizza and takes a bite.

Maggie nods. "Yeah, isn't it supposed to be fake meat or … something?"

"Not always," Callie says. "You can buy it plain in blocks."

" **Why** are you buying it plain in blocks?" Meredith says.

Callie sighs. "Because I'm dating a vegan."

"And this vegan has infected you with her wily, vegan ways?" Maggie says.

"No, but I need to be able to cook something **he** can eat," Callie says. "I'm practicing." She jabs one of the blocks onto her fork and stuffs it into her mouth. The block sits on her tongue for about five seconds before she spits it out. "Oh, god, it's awful. How do people eat this? I wonder if I cooked it wrong."

"How did you cook it?" Maggie says.

Callie shrugs. "I stuffed it in the microwave."

"Um," Maggie says. "I'm pretty sure that's wrong. Maybe, find a recipe to try?"

Meredith shakes her head. "I doubt that will fix it. Derek was the health nut, and even he didn't like tofu."

"Was?" Maggie says. " **Was** a health nut?"

Meredith snorts. "Oh, god, you should see him, now. Getting his head smashed has turned him into an unrepentant glutton with a massive potato chip fetish. He likes kettle chips the most."

"I thought that Doritos bag he was stuffing his face with was a fluke when I visited," Maggie says.

Meredith shakes her head. "Nope. That's pretty much _modus operandi_ for him, now. He's lucky he exercises so much." She takes a giant bite out of her pizza, and then sips from her soda. "As he has jealously reminded me so many times over the last decade, he does **not** have my metabolism."

"Maybe, I can sauté it?" Callie says, staring at her tofu. She winces. "God, what was I thinking?"

"You were thinking you'd get laid, would be my guess," Meredith says. She takes another sip from her soda.

Callie sighs. "I was **so** hoping I'd get laid."

"So, the question is," Maggie says, grinning, "is getting laid worth learning to prepare tofu?"

Callie licks her lips. "Hmm, maybe. Depends how good he is. I'm hoping for somewhere close to a ten on the Mark scale of sexual prowess." She smiles as she looks off into space. "I really miss him sometimes."

"Yeah," Meredith agrees. "Me, too. Minus the sexual prowess part."

"Oh, Mere," Callie says with a dreamy sigh. "He was **really** good."

Meredith snorts. "I'll have to take your word for it."

"So, why do you need a distraction, anyway?" Maggie says.

Callie frowns. "I need one now, too. And a cold shower. Damn." She shakes her head.

Meredith glances at her watch. "Because right about now, Derek's probably learning how to pay a bus fare, and I don't want to think about it."

"Why is paying a bus fare bad?" Callie says.

"Because it means Derek's learning to be out in the world by himself somewhere," Meredith says. "Somewhere where he could get shot, or smooshed, or dropped from a stupid height, and I just don't want to think about it, because whenever I do that, all I get is every episode of Mr. Bill replaying in Technicolor in my freaking head."

Maggie laughs. And then she coughs. And then she swallows, and she looks at her soggy salad with guilt dripping from her expression. She crams some lettuce into her mouth, and Meredith blinks at the reminder of Lexie and her nervous eating. Wow, so many memories today. Maggie chews noisily, and then she gulps. "Sorry, that wasn't funny."

"It was kind of funny," Callie says. Maggie and Meredith stare at her, mirrored incredulous expressions on their faces. "What? The world sucks. If we can't laugh about it a little, what's the point?"

"The point is I need a distraction," Meredith says. "Pronto. Give me something. Anything."

Callie thinks for a moment. "Wanna replace a hip with me? Could be fun!"

"Maybe," Meredith says. She glances at Maggie. "Do you have anything for me?"

"I have nothing today but paperwork," Maggie says.

Meredith grins at Callie. "Okay. You win. Sign me up for the bone saw."

* * *

Meredith's too scared to ask Derek how things went when she picks him up on Monday. He seems to understand her rapacious desire for zero details about his day, though, and other than the soft strains of violins flitting from the car's speaker system, the ride home is a comfortable, warm silence. She doesn't miss the brightness in his mood, and the absence of the slump in his posture, though, things she hasn't seen in weeks.

When she parks the car in their long gravel driveway, she dares to ask him, "Are you feeling better today?"

"Yes," he says. "Five."

Meredith nods, wringing the steering wheel with her hands. Not bad for a normal state of being outside of sex, given how the week started. She's scared enough to puke, but she knows what it feels like not to have any hope, and she's glad she's given some back to him.

* * *

Meredith flops next to Alex on the gurney. "So," she says.

Alex stops writing on his chart and raises an eyebrow. "So, what?"

"How are you?" Meredith says.

He blinks. "How am I?"

"Yes," Meredith says. "I want to know how you are."

Alex stares at her for a moment like she's quit doctoring to join the ballet. "I'm good, thanks," he says. He turns back to his chart. The scratching sounds of his pen on paper fill the silence. She frowns, watching him for a minute. He sighs, and he rolls his eyes at her. "Look, we're cool, okay? I get that you had shit going on. It's not a big deal."

"But I'm a horrible friend," she says. "Hey, do you need a bachelor party?"

He laughs. "No, you're not, and, no, I don't."

"Everybody already has parties planned," Meredith says, sighing. "That's like the one friend-y thing I'm even a quarter good at."

"I don't have a bachelor party planned," Alex says.

Meredith blinks. "But you said you don't need one."

He shrugs. "I don't."

Meredith swallows. "Wow."

"Yeah," he says.

She smiles at him. "I'm really glad you found someone to be happy with."

"Me, too," he says. "It's weird. I never thought I'd …." He shakes his head like he's lost his train of thought.

Meredith's grin widens. "I know **that** feeling."

"Yeah," he replies.

She relaxes with a sigh, pressing her back into the windowsill, and he resumes scribbling on his chart. She closes her eyes. She hasn't had a chance to rest all day, and it's good to be off her feet, not thinking. They sit in companionable silence for a minute. Warm, late afternoon sunlight slants through the windows, and she lets herself bask.

When her beeper splits the silence with a shrill call a few minutes later, she rubs her eyes to glance at it. Not 911, but she needs to get moving again. She slides off the gurney and straightens her jacket.

"Hey," Alex calls after her as she strides away.

She stops and turns to him, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"You could be my best man," Alex says. "I don't have one."

"Really?" Meredith says.

He looks away like he's embarrassed he's asked. He shrugs. "If you want."

"I want," she says. "Do you have rings?"

He nods.

"Okay," she says, walking backward as her beeper goes off again. "We're talking about this later, just FYI." And then she turns, breaks into a trot, and heads toward her waiting patient.

* * *

She picks up Derek from rehab on Wednesday, this time meeting him at the pet store instead of making him walk back to the center. She finds him in the back of the store, watching the cats again. The tiny gray tabby from last week is gone, and in his place sits an adult calico cat with shocking green eyes.

Derek looks up as Meredith approaches, and he smiles. A real smile that reaches his eyes and stays there on his face long enough for her to catalog every wonderful feature of his happiness. She loves that he's smiling again. "Hello," he says.

"Hi," she says, and she greets him with a kiss. She jerks with surprise when she tastes bitter coffee on his tongue, and then she laughs. "Been to the Starbucks after all?"

"I wanted … hot chocolate," Derek says with a sigh. "I freezed … when … my turn … order."

"And freezing results in coffee?" Meredith says, sympathy twanging.

She brushes her fingers through his hair and kisses him again, embracing the coffee, now that she's prepared for it. He might not like coffee, but she can't function without it. He tastes good. Like … Caramel Cocoa Cluster Frappuccino. Not that she's a Starbucks addict or anything.

"I pointed someone …," Derek says. "Say copy her."

Meredith laughs. "What'd you end up with?"

He frowns. "Don't know." He swallows and makes a face. "I try, but … bad."

She kisses him again. "I dunno," she says against his skin. "I kinda like it." She hears a faint bop, bop, bop, and pulls away. She turns toward the sound. The calico is batting the glass, meowing for attention, though Meredith can't hear the high-pitched mews, only the bops of its paws. "So, who's your friend?" she says. She gestures at the window to their furry spectator.

Derek shrugs. The white index card taped to the bottom the window says the name, Cappuccino, but it's handwritten with neon marker, and Derek has massive problems reading handwritten text.

"Cappuccino," Meredith says with a laugh. "How appropriate."

He stares at the window. Cappuccino bops the glass with her paws, and he drags his finger along the window for her to pounce on. "Awful," he says, shaking his head. "Name … bad … drink."

Meredith watches him, watching the cat. Pre-accident Derek was a dog person through and through, but, judging from the warm, happy look on his face, he lost his animal preferences on impact. Pets are known stress reducers, something Derek could use in spades, and cats are much more low maintenance than dogs. And quieter. Getting a dog would be like having another kid, which … she can't handle right now. But he wants to be able to independently parent. Maybe, a pet would be a good intermediate step for him. Plus, he'd have a friend offering him unconditional love. A friend who doesn't give a crap when he doesn't want to talk.

"Do you want a kitten or cat?" she says. "Or something?"

Derek pokes the glass with his finger, and Cappuccino pounces. He smiles. "Or something?" he says, eyebrows raised.

"Well, I don't know," Meredith says. "A bird? Or … a mouse. Or … something else small and fuzzy from the order rodentia? I veto reptiles and tarantulas, though."

"You suggest … get … cat?" he says.

She shrugs. "If you want one and will take care of it, sure."

He watches Cappuccino for a long moment. "Now?" he says.

"You want Cappuccino?"

"I don't know," he says.

"Why don't you think about it, then?" she says. "We can pick a cat on Friday if you still want one."

"Okay," he says.

He's silent on the way out of the store, but she doesn't miss the fact that he's smiling again.

* * *

Cappuccino is gone on Friday when Derek and Meredith head back to the pet store to pick out a cat for Derek. Derek spends time watching the inhabitants of the cage at each window, and Meredith hangs back, letting him make this decision for himself. She intends to veto if he picks out some sort of feline hellion, but other than that, this is going to be his cat, so it's his choice.

"If you don't see one you like, here, we can always try the animal shelter," Meredith interjects while he browses. "They'll have a lot more."

Derek nods, but he's staring at one of the windows like he's gotten trapped in a tractor beam or something. She steps beside him to peer inside. The cage houses the tiniest kitten she's ever seen, even tinier than the tiny gray tabby from the other week. The kitten is black with white paws and a white nose and chest. The cat has a wide-eyed _whoa-what-the-hell-is-this-place?_ expression on its face that Meredith finds endearing. She glances at the index card at the bottom right corner of the glass.

"Felix, male, eight weeks," Meredith reads on the card.

Derek smiles at the kitten. "I … like. Felix."

"Well, let's go see if we can find somebody to help us."

Derek puts his hand on her shoulder. "I … I … I do it. I try," he says, and he walks off before Meredith can pick up her jaw.

* * *

Derek comes back with the cashier Meredith met last week. Her name is Latoya, and Latoya seems to understand within seconds of closer interaction that "Mr. Dreamboat" has some issues with speech. She's patient and understanding, but she doesn't treat Derek like a moron, either, and the prolonged dialog is exactly the kind of exchange Derek needs to prove the world isn't full of crappy people. Meredith hopes he takes it to heart.

Latoya takes them into the back room, and she opens the cage door so Derek can meet Felix up close. Meredith is expecting Latoya to pick up Felix and put him on the floor, but instead she only opens the door. The kitten approaches the edge.

"Put your hand out," Latoya suggests.

Derek takes a moment, but complies. Felix inches closer and sniffs. He mews and rubs his cheek against Derek's finger. Then the purring starts. For such a tiny creature, Felix has a great set of pipes, and he sounds like an idling car motor or something, all loud and grumbly. The grin that stretches across Derek's face is nuclear, and Meredith's so glad to see it she aches.

"Hello," Derek says. He gives the little kitten a stroke from head to tail. The kitten arches into the touch and turns around for a second pass. A soft rumble loiters in Derek's throat, an almost chuckle.

Latoya grins. "Aww, Felix sure seems like a love bug."

With a twitch of his tail, the kitten bounds out of the cage and hops onto Derek's shoulder, his little needle claws digging into Derek's t-shirt for purchase. Derek puts his hand under the kitten's rump and pushes him up the rest of the way. Felix surveys the world from his perch with a happy mew.

Latoya laughs. "Wow, he really likes you!"

Meredith takes one glance at Derek and smiles. She hasn't seen a look like that on his face since he held Bailey in his arms the first time. The bond is instant, and strong, and says all sorts of paternal things, like: Mine. Love. I'll keep you safe. It's the kind of look that tells Meredith her family is bigger, now.

"So, what else do we need to get to keep this little guy happy?" Meredith says.

* * *

"Feeling better today?" Meredith says as they drive home with Felix mewing from his carrier on Derek's lap. Her trunk is full of crap. Bowls. A litter box. Bags of litter. Bags of food. Toys. So many toys. A brush.

Derek sticks his finger into one of the holes in the box, and he grins. "Six."

* * *

"A kitty!" Zola exclaims when hears the sounds coming from the box Derek carries through the front door. "A kitty, a kitty! Daddy, it's a kitty!"

"It is," Derek says. "His name … Felix."

"Fewix?" Bailey says, testing out the name on his tongue.

Derek nods. "Yes."

"I pet kitty?" Bailey says.

Meredith picks Bailey up and settles him against her hip. "Let's let Felix get settled first, okay? You wouldn't want a stranger picking you up or chasing you, would you?"

"But I own-ee want pet," Bailey says, frowning.

Meredith gives him a kiss on the forehead. "Maybe, later, okay? Let Felix get used to us, first."

Bailey sighs. "Okay, Mommy."

"Can we watch?" Zola says, excitement bleeding from her tone. She bounces. "Can we watch the kitty?"

"If you're quiet, and you don't chase him, you can watch for a minute," Meredith says.

"I promise!" Zola says.

Zola and Bailey follow Derek and Meredith into the master bedroom, eyes on the little mewing cat carrier the whole way. They've decided to limit Felix to the master bedroom for now, until he gets used to his new living situation, both to give him a stepwise introduction to the house, and to keep the kids from overwhelming him. Meredith has next to zero experience with cats, and if Derek ever did, he's forgotten it all, but Latoya suggested a gradual introduction, and both Meredith and Derek agreed it would be good to listen to someone who has a clue.

Derek smiles and sets the cat carrier on the floor. He opens the box, reaches in, and pulls out the little black bundle. Felix wriggles and mews as he gets a look at his new surroundings.

Zola's eyes widen, and she squeaks like every instinct in her body is telling her to run toward the tiny, fuzzy creature and hug it, but she claps her hands over her mouth and mumbles something like, "I'm being quiet, Mommy. I swear."

Derek strokes Felix and then sets him down on the floor. The kitten slinks low to the floor and disappears underneath the bed. Latoya told them to expect something like this, though, so Meredith isn't worried.

"Kitty 'cared?" Bailey says.

Derek frowns. "Care for … what?"

"He means scared," Meredith interjects. Derek's gotten good at figuring out missing or replaced els, and putting t-h back into a word where Bailey's exchanged t-h for ef, but he still has trouble occasionally with Bailey's other less common speech impediments. "He's asking if Felix is scared."

"Oh," Derek says. His frown deepens.

Bailey wriggles, and Meredith lets him down. He lies on the floor next to the bed to peer under the mattress, but he doesn't make any noise. Felix mews from somewhere in the depths.

"This … new," Derek says to Bailey. "New is … scare. Scary."

Meredith nods. "Let's give Felix a little chance to adjust. Daddy's going to stay in here for a bit. We'll see if Felix is ready to play with the rest of us tomorrow, okay?" And she corrals the kids out of the room, closing the door behind her, so Derek has some quiet bonding time with his new buddy.

* * *

The next time Meredith checks on Derek, after she's put the kids to bed, she finds him asleep on his stomach in their bed, and Felix is curled up in the crook of his neck. She grins. This was one of her better ideas, she thinks.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** YESSSS! *fist pump* I'm so proud of our babies. Aren't you? One of the things I've loved about this story is the ability to repair them from the ground up, which includes having them learn to freaking talk, and THEN get on with the dirty, dirty sex :D


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Notes:**

 **FFNET IS ALIVE!** Took them long enough! Sorry this is late-ish. Thank you, as always, to everybody who takes the time to leave a comment! I'm behind on replying right now, but please know you guys are the reason sharing stories is fun :)

* * *

 **Week twenty-six.**

On Sunday morning, Sarah takes all the kids for an aquarium trip downtown as repayment for Meredith taking all the kids on Saturday, so Sarah and Stewart could have a "date" day. Stewart arrives unannounced on their stoop, hair loose and hanging in black, wispy strands to his shoulders. He wears a Knicks t-shirt, frayed jeans with holes in the knees, and scuffed, dirty cross-trainers. He carries an armful of Blu-rays. "I come bearing essential pop culture," he says with a smile.

"Hi," Meredith says, smiling. "Didn't go to the aquarium?"

Stewart shakes his head. "Sarah let me off the hook on dad duty. I thought I'd stop by and see if my grownup playmate might like to play, instead." He lifts one of the Blu-ray boxes so Meredith can see it. "I've been meaning to show him the fundamentals for weeks, now."

She raises her eyebrows as she motions him into the house. " _Star Wars_?"

"Yes," Stewart says. "It's criminal that he hasn't seen these."

"He's seen them. He hated them. He just doesn't remember."

"Well, see, we have a perfect opportunity to fix him, now, don't we?" Stewart says. "Who'd have thought amnesia is not entirely bad? Not only does he get to forget being shot, he gets a do-over on _Star Wars_."

"Stewart, he really doesn't like watching television," Meredith says.

Stewart frowns at his pile. "I know he doesn't, but I thought …." His frown deepens. "Have you already tried watching movies with him? I got the impression you hadn't."

"Home movies," Meredith says with a shrug.

"Well, yes, but those don't typically have a plot to follow."

"So?" she says. "I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"My point is that you can pause and rewind a movie to your heart's content," Stewart says. "I figured I'd give him control of the remote so he can pause when he needs a second to think, or rewind if he needs to hear something again to understand it. I've seen the movies a zillion times. Interruptions in flow wouldn't bug me."

Meredith bites her lip. He makes good points. Really good ones that Meredith never thought of. Derek's gotten a lot harder to lose in conversation, even if she trips into babble mode by accident. But even though he's better at it, he still has to work to understand her. Listening to words is **work** for him. Movies and television, to Meredith, are brainless activities that she uses to fill time when she doesn't want to think. For Derek, movies would be the polar opposite. Brain teasers. Things to entertain him when he **wants** to be challenged.

"That's not a bad idea," Meredith concedes, "but it would still be work for him, and he's been really off since that migraine. He's been having lots of trouble talking. He hasn't said anything about it being harder lately, but I imagine listening is in the same boat."

Stewart hefts a weighty sigh, and concern creases his dark eyes. "Still?"

"Yeah. I don't know." Meredith sighs. "It's like something in his head got broken, which is crazy, because a headache shouldn't damage anything like that."

Stewart glances at his movie pile again with a frown. "Well, it can't hurt to ask if he's interested, can it?"

"I guess not," Meredith says.

"Where is he, anyway?"

Meredith glances toward the hallway that leads to the master bedroom. "He's still asleep."

"At 2 p.m.?" Stewart says, incredulous.

"I told you," Meredith says. "He's been really off."

"I wish I could help."

"You do help," Meredith says. "You help more than words can say. He **really** needed a friend when you came along."

Stewart reddens. "Aww, shucks," he says with a bashful look, and then he clears his throat and manages a disarming grin. "This is getting too high on my mush meter, though," he says. "Can we go back to _Star Wars_?"

Meredith snorts, but obliges him. "I was going to try and get him to watch _Star Trek_ at some point."

Stewart gapes. "Before _Star Wars_?"

"Well, yes," Meredith replies, frowning. "But only because it was a thing with a joke and … whatever. Yes, _Star Trek_ first."

" _Star Trek_ … before _Star Wars_?" Stewart says, the words slow, like he's been presented with an impossible calculus problem.

Meredith shrugs. "Sure, why not?"

"Because that's blasphemy, woman!" Stewart says.

Meredith snorts. "Not a Trek fan, I take it?"

"That's beside the point," Stewart says. "The point is _Star Wars_ is **better**! Kirk-fu versus a lightsaber is a no-brainer that ends in dismembered Kirk."

"Kirk … fu?" Meredith echoes.

"Don't tell me you watched _Star Trek_ without an eye for the complexities of Kirk-fu."

Meredith frowns. "I can't say that I did."

"Well, what the hell did you watch it for, then?" Stewart says.

"I like Spock," Meredith says with a shrug. "He had that whole fish out of water, never quite fitting in thing going on that I identified with."

"You, a fish out of water?" Stewart says, eyebrows raised.

"My youth was troubled," Meredith admits. "I had pink hair and everything."

"Ah, yes," Stewart says, an understanding rumble. "I had my own flirtation with purple."

Meredith raises her eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"No," Stewart responds. "I was a rebel without a hue. But if I had to pick, I'd go purple."

"You," Meredith says in a flat tone. "Purple."

"I'll have you know, purple is a great color," Stewart replies. "Very majestic."

"Hey, I love purple," Meredith says. Lavender in particular. "Just … you don't strike me as a purple person."

"What can I say?" Stewart says with a wink. "I'm an enigma."

Meredith grins. "Wrapped in a puzzle?"

"Hugged by a riddle, yes," Stewart says. He looks over Meredith's shoulder and smiles. "Good morning, sunshine."

"Hello," Derek says, the word soft, as he wanders into the room in his blue bathrobe, the one Meredith got him for Christmas last year when he was still living at the rehab center. His hair is a flyaway mess, like he's plugged himself into a light socket, and there's a crease running across his cheek and forehead from a wrinkled sheet or something. The puffy circles that have been hugging his eyes for weeks are gone, though, and the blue in his eyes looks bright.

"How are you feeling?" Meredith says.

He shrugs. "Good," he says. After a pause, he adds, "Six." He wanders into the kitchen area to pull some orange juice from the fridge.

"Oh, my god; it's a rat!" Stewart exclaims.

Meredith looks down at the floor to see Felix slinking along the hallway, a little black-and-white fluff ball smaller than one of Stewart's shoes. The kitten stops and huddles by the baseboard molding, staring up at Stewart with sort of a _holy-crap-a-dinosaur-please-don't-step-on-me_ expression. Meredith frowns.

"Derek, did you mean to let him out?"

Derek looks up from his orange juice expedition and follows her gaze to where Felix huddles. "Yes," he says. "The kids are gone. Felix can explore without … chase."

Meredith's jaw drops. He's talking again. Normal talking for him. Not every word sounds like a war anymore, and he's managing short, mostly fluent sentences. He slept late yesterday, too. Until almost 3 p.m. Maybe, all he ever needed was to catch up on sleep. Real sleep not tinged with misery and stress.

"When did you get a rat?" Stewart says.

Derek grins. "Felix is a cat, not a rat."

Stewart frowns. "Looks like a rat to me." He lowers himself on his haunches and holds out his hand. Felix dares to step away from the floor molding. He inches toward Stewart. He sniffs Stewart's hand. And then the rumbling purr starts. Felix head-butts Stewart's palm, almost forcing Stewart into a pet. Stewart gives him a stroke, his giant hand dwarfing the small creature. Stewart smiles. "Felix, eh? Like the cartoon?" He gives Felix a scratch under the chin. The kitten eats it up like it's ice cream.

"Cartoon?" Derek echoes.

"Oh, boy," Stewart says. "We have **so** much pop culture work to do, man."

* * *

Meredith knew watching a movie would be work for Derek. She had no idea **how much** work, though, until she watches him muddle through _Star Wars._ Watching the two-hour movie takes Derek more than three hours. Anytime there's a subtitle, he has to pause the screen, because he can't read fast enough to finish before the text is gone. The opening scroll that provides the setup for the plot takes him more than five minutes to slog through. Anytime someone makes a noise, like a cushion squeaking, or a wrapper crinkling, or a throat clearing, he hits pause and rewind. Anytime the actors speak in a rapid-fire exchange – Han and Leia's sniping comes to mind – Derek has to pause and rewind after almost every sentence. He can't listen to the movie and do other things, can't divide his focus – he stares at the screen the whole time. The whole. Freaking. Time. He stares so intensely that he comes off like he's afraid to blink. When the credits roll, he slumps, and he puts his face in his hands.

"So, what's the verdict?" Stewart says.

Derek rubs his eyes and peers at Stewart through the gaps in his fingers. "What … verdict?" he says in a tired, halting tone.

"Verdict means judgment." Stewart says. "Did you like it?"

Derek swallows and pinches the bridge of his nose before he picks up his head and sits up straight. He doesn't speak, but he manages a smile after he collects himself. He nods, too. But he doesn't seem up to discussing anything about it.

"Need a talking break?" Stewart says. He's getting as good as Meredith at navigating Derek's disability.

Derek looks at Stewart through drooping eyelashes. It takes him work to eject, "Yes," from the tangle of syllables in his throat, which he follows with a halting, struggling, "Please."

Stewart nods, glancing at his watch as he stands. The sun is long set, and the space beyond the house's windows is black. "Probably time for me to go anyway," he says. "Sarah's going to want some dinner when she gets back with all the kiddos."

Meredith walks with him to the front door. He grabs his coat from the coat closet. "Thanks for coming," she says.

Stewart grins. "Absolutely. I had fun. And did you see that?"

"See what?"

"He smiled. From a former hater, that's like a four-star restaurant review from the New York Times. We'll make a _Star Wars_ fan out of him, yet. Not to worry!"

She snorts. "I wasn't worried, Stu."

"Of course, you say that now that I've done the hard part," he counters.

As Meredith shuts the door behind a departing Stewart, Felix bats a crayon across the floor in the kitchen. He slinked all over the house while they watched the movie, exploring every nook and cranny with his wide yellow eyes and his tiny pink nose. Meredith scoops him up and takes the crayon. Little holes pock the crayon's wrapper where Felix has dug in claws or teeth.

When she wanders back to the sofa, Derek's lying flat on his back, face tipped toward the back cushion, breaths even. Asleep. Meredith sets the kitten down on the carpet, but keeps the crayon. She bites her lip, watching Derek slumber. A single two-hour movie has become a feat akin to a marathon for him, and he has to rest afterward.

It's weird, she thinks, the kinds of unexpected things a split second of bad luck can take away.

* * *

After the kids are in bed that night, she spends over an hour with him, cuddling. Kissing. She loves this. This expression of love with no destination. He seems to, also.

" _Star Trek_ is show, not movie?" he says as he slides his lips up her spine in a slow, meandering exploration of her skin. The covers rustle as his body shifts.

"Mmm," she says. "Yes." She rolls to face him when he arrives at the space between her shoulder blades. "It's like eighty episodes or something."

She presses her lips to his. "We need start soon," he murmurs.

She snorts. "I can't get over this. I just can't." She grips his hip, runs her fingers up and over his ribcage to his chest. She toils with her index finger in the soft, wispy hairs that dust his chest. "You used to hate _Star Wars_ and _Star Trek_ and all that gimmicky space shit." She laughs. "That's what you called it. Gimmicky space shit."

"I don't know what gimmick is," he says with an easy shrug.

"It's-"

He shuts her up with a kiss. "I don't need to know, now," he says against her lips.

When he pulls back, he's still close enough for their noses to bump. His eyes are endless pools. He rubs her shoulder to elbow with a warm palm as he scoots closer. His erection presses against her belly, but it's an afterthought. Neither of them is hunting for the finish right now, maybe not even tonight. He reaches down to arrange himself a little better, and then they're a long line of flesh and bone, mashed together, comfortable. She never wants to move again.

He pulls his fingers through her hair, and her eyelids drift to half-mast. She sighs, relaxing into his ministrations. "You make me happy," he says in a soft, velvet tone that makes her shiver despite the warmth. He kisses her.

"Me, too," she says.

They whittle away the night together.

* * *

Meredith never realized how much she takes for granted about her ability to go places by herself. Not until she sees the thick packet Dean gives her on Monday morning when she stops by his office to touch base with him about the Derek travel situation. The packet must be twenty pages. Glossy color pictures intersperse the textual directions, which are far more detailed than simple Google maps steps like turn left on Mangrove Street and proceed 0.5 miles or whatever. Between the normal Google-y road directions are little notes like, "You'll see a building with a blue awning on your right," or, "There will be a park with a yellow slide on the left," and each note has one of the pretty pictures next to it.

"What's this for?" Meredith says, stunned stupid.

"I traced the route you want Derek to take to get here for the meeting," Dean says. "These are my notes. I wanted to give you an example of directions geared toward someone with his deficits."

Meredith shakes the packet. "This is for **one** bus route? Isn't this overkill?"

"Technically two," Dean says, "since it's directions for both ways."

Meredith blinks. Even for two routes, this is insane. "Seriously?"

Dean frowns, and he gestures at the chair on the opposite side of the desk. She sits, feeling oddly like a kid stuck in the principal's office. Dean clasps his hands and leans forward. His big leather chair creaks. He works in a small, shoebox-sized office when he's not seeing patients. The walls are lined with filing cabinets and bookshelves, and between those, the desk, and the two chairs, there's no space left to breathe.

"What you have to remember," Dean says, "is that Derek's never traveled anywhere by himself before. He thinks slowly. He's not reliably able talk to strangers. And he's not able to read very well, yet, either."

Meredith swallows. "Are you telling me this isn't doable?"

Dean shakes his head. "No, no, of course, not. He's more than ready to give this a shot with the right preparation, but, please, realize that sending him out by himself right now is a little like if you were to take a vacation in China with duct tape over your mouth while in caffeine withdrawal. You won't be able to read many of the signs, and you won't be able to ask anyone for help, and you won't be thinking very fast to boot."

She glances at the packet as realization sinks in. "Which is why I'd want to make my trip forearmed with pictures and as much other information as possible about where I'm going?"

"Exactly," Dean says.

Meredith frowns at the packet. She flips a few pages. She blinks. Her eyes space, and the insane directions fuzz out of focus. This is ….

"Now, he won't always need this much, of course, particularly as he gets better with reading," Dean drawls on. "But for now, in the beginning, you'll want to err on the side of directions that are too granular, rather than too vague. You can't take any details for granted, because for him, **everything** is new."

She swallows. "Okay," she says, the word faint.

"Another thing that might help," Dean suggests, "if you find, in the future, that he's still struggling with talking to strangers, even as he gets more confident, is purchasing some sort of communication augmentation device for him." He pauses, letting that sink in, and then he adds, "I think there might even be an app for that," with a grin. "His speech therapist would know more about that."

"Okay," she repeats. He makes sense. Dean does. He makes sense. But …

"I get the impression I've upset you," Dean says, frowning.

"I'm … surprised," she says.

He nods. "I expected surprise. This type of thing is often a reality check for family members. But I get the impression I've upset you, too."

"I …," she begins, only to stumble to a halt. She takes a deep breath. "How am I supposed to make him something like this for the train to New York? I've never taken the train to New York from here." Or anywhere, really. She's never taken a train **anywhere**. Planes are too convenient. "There's a connection in Chicago he'll have to make, and another one in Pittsburgh, and I have no idea what the insides of either of those two train stations look like. How am I supposed to narrate directions for him through places I've never even seen? And how am I supposed to get pictures?"

"I think a train trip to New York might be too ambitious for Derek right now, anyway," Dean says in a cautious tone.

"But …," Meredith says. A pit hollows out her stomach. "But it can't be. It can't be too ambitious."

"Meredith, throwing Derek into the deep end of the pool right now is a good way to give him a migraine and convince him he shouldn't have tried in the first place," Dean says. "And you don't want that. The goal is to give him every reasonable chance of success. The more confident he gets, the easier this will be. Start small. Build up to cross-country adventures."

She fingers the instruction packet Dean gave her, swallowing. She knew Derek figuring out the train connections would be rough. She **knew** it. But she didn't think it would be twenty zillion pages of rough. Hell, probably more, since a train route that would take nearly three days to complete would require quite a few more instructions than a two-hour bus route.

"But I told him he could see his family," Meredith says, numb. "This will kill him if he can't go."

"There's no way you can go with him?" Dean says.

"No!" Meredith says. "I have almost no annual leave left whatsoever. I burned it all up when Derek came home. I barely have time to make Thanksgiving in New York as it is. His sister can't go with him, either. I checked." Amelia and Owen had already booked a cruise that left this Sunday, and they would be flying to New York from the Caribbean upon the cruise's completion.

Dean gives her a helpless shrug. "I can't make you do anything. All I can say is-"

"Is that I'm screwed either way?" Meredith snaps. Either she gets Derek to stay home, and he slides back into the crying, grieving pit she's only barely yanked him out of, or she sends him to New York, and he has a nervous breakdown followed by a migraine in the middle of nowhere-near-Seattle, and he probably **still** slides into the grieving pit again when he recovers from the migraine enough to think straight.

"I'm sorry," Dean says, his tone low and sympathetic. "I know this is a hard adjustment."

"This will kill him," she repeats. Her eyes water. "He wants to be independent. He wants to be able to travel. He wants to see his freaking family on freaking Thanksgiving!"

"And he will be able to do all those things," Dean says. "I'm sure of it."

"But not in time for **this** Thanksgiving," Meredith says. Her throat hurts. "He's been through so much. He's had so much taken away from him. He just wants to see his family." She's going to lose it right in Dean's office if she doesn't bolt, soon. "Why can't the universe give him a break?"

Dean nods. "I know how hard this is. Believe me; I do."

"How **can** you?" she snaps. "How can you know? Do you live it?"

Dean doesn't respond to that, and she feels awful. Awful for piling on him. She snatches up her purse off the arm of the chair and stands. A lump forms in her throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry to snap. I know you're just trying to help me. And him. You're trying to help Derek. But I have to …." She can't breathe. "I have to go, now."

She flees back to her car.

* * *

"I'm so sorry," Meredith says into the dead silence clogging the air in the car. "I'm **so** sorry, Derek."

Derek stares out the window at the passing cars. With the impending arrival of winter, the days are getting shorter, and it's dark as Meredith drives him home. A sea of red lights drifts in front of them. A sea of white drifts behind. Meredith grimaces as she navigates around a puttering Camry. The motor hums as she accelerates.

The problem with this darkness is that she can't see Derek's face, and she has no idea how he's taken this news. "I know this is upsetting," Meredith says, but the silence is strangling her, and instinct drives her to fill it with babbling drivel. "I'm so sorry I got your hopes up. I didn't realize this was going to be such a huge thing, or I never would have told you I thought you could do it. I know how badly you want to see your family, and I'm so sorry to keep jerking you around like a yo-yo. I'm **so** sorry. I'm-"

"Pause," Derek says in a soft, desperate voice. "Please. Pause."

Meredith clamps her mouth shut.

Derek thinks. For a long time, he thinks. And thinks. The pages of the directions Dean gave Meredith to give to Derek crinkle in his hands as his grip tightens. "Dean says train is … stressful?" he says, the words slow and cautious. "That I will get … get … get migraine?"

Meredith swallows. "For now, yeah, Derek. He does. He thinks it's too much to start you with."

"But … I can ride … bus," Derek says.

"Yes," Meredith says. "That's what those instructions in your lap are for. So you can get to that parent meeting you want to go to. That's next week."

"But …." Derek stops, and he thinks. "But … I. I work on … learning train? I can go some … sometime?"

"Absolutely," Meredith says. "He thinks you can do it. He absolutely thinks you can. Just not so soon."

The paper crinkles as his grip shifts. He swallows. "Why? Why is it … s? S." He closes his eyes and thinks. And thinks. "I can't say this."

She blinks. "Stressful?" she says, though she's never seen a word taken away from him in mid-conversation before. God, how frustrating must that be to not be able to remember how to say a word you just said a few sentences ago?

Derek nods. "Yes, why is it?"

"You'll be by yourself in a new place. You'll have to think fast and read things, and if you need help, you'll need to talk to people you don't know, which you hate to do."

"Okay," he says. He nods. "I … stay home. This year. I … I stay home." His voice is thick, like he's trying not to start crying.

"Derek, I'm so sorry," she repeats, because it's all she can think of to say, no matter how inadequate the words may be. Her eyes are watering, now, too, and her throat hurts. She rubs her eyes. "We'll do something fun. Just for us and the kids. Maybe, Stewart and Sarah and the girls will come, too. We can do our own thing."

"Okay," he says, a whisper. His head thunks against the window as he slumps against the car door.

"Can you talk to me?" she pleads. She doesn't want him to fall off the depression cliff again. She couldn't bear it. Not when she just got him back.

Derek sniffs. "He thinks I will get migraine?" he repeats in a breathy voice.

"Yes," Meredith says. "He thinks it'll be too stressful."

"I don't want a migraine," he says, swallowing. "I don't want. I don't want **ever**. It's like knifes in my … h … h-head."

"I know," Meredith says. She reaches across the parking brake and strokes his thigh. "I know they're awful for you." She wishes they could find a freaking abortive that would work for him even semi-reliably. It would be a godsend.

"M … m …." Derek hums the letter deep in his throat. "Maybe, I can go next year?"

"Yes," Meredith says. "Yes, I promise. Even if you're not ready to go by yourself by then, I'll go with you. I'll save up leave. I promise, I'll make this happen for you." She swallows. "I will. I promise. You deserve to be with your family on Thanksgiving. I'll make it happen."

Silence stretches. She navigates out of the passing lane to allow a tailgater through. A cherry-colored Corvette flies past the driver's side window. She squints at it. It's just like Mark's. But she's being silly again. She shakes her head and focuses on the road, not the ludicrous possibility of Ghost Mark chasing them in a Ghost Corvette.

She flinches in surprise when something touches her shoulder, but then she realizes it's Derek, and she sighs. Leans into the touch. She lifts a hand from the steering wheel to put her hand over his. His skin is warm, and she smiles.

"I will be with family on Thanksgiving," Derek says.

She glances at him. He's staring at her, but she can't read his expression in this darkness. She squeezes his hand. "You will, Derek. I will get you there next year no matter what. I promise. I mean it."

He swallows. "No," he says. "No, I mean I will be … this year."

"What?" she says.

He takes a short breath. "You say … I deserve be … be with family Thanksgiving." His grip on her shoulder tightens. "I will be."

"Oh," she says. She blinks away a blur. "Yeah," she says. "This is our first, you know. You weren't speaking, yet, for the last one."

"I remember," he says.

"I thought you didn't remember before you could speak?" Meredith says.

"This is … my earliest remember after … accident. I think."

Meredith smiles. Now that she thinks about it, the return of his personhood a little before the return of his speech makes sense, and he started speaking in the first week of December. Her Christmas present from him last year was hearing him stumble through saying her name. He couldn't manage more than single-syllable words at the time, and so her name became a halting marriage of "myrrh" and "dith" without the connecting e in the middle. He said it like his mouth was full of marbles, but it was her name, all the same. Myrrhdith. She thinks it's the best Christmas present she's ever received.

"You … bring turkey," he continues, pulling her out of her musing. "And stuffing. I didn't … n … know what is happen … but … I liked." He pauses to think. "I liked everyone be there."

She nods. "I pushed you in your wheelchair to the cafeteria, and we ate at one of the tables," Meredith says. "I remember, too."

She came with the kids, and Carolyn and Amelia and Owen and Kathleen and her family, too. Carolyn had taken over Meredith's kitchen and cooked up a storm for them all. Derek had seemed mystified by the whole boisterous affair, but she remembers the way he kept smiling when people would talk to him, or go out of their way to include him in the conversation, even though he couldn't participate. She remembers he grabbed her hand when she tried to leave that night, too. Something he'd never done before. In retrospect, he'd given them lots of hints that he was at the wheel again.

"I should have known that was you," Meredith says.

"Yes," Derek says, tone warm. "I like this remember very much."

"Okay, so this will be our second Thanksgiving," Meredith concedes.

"Our second," Derek says. "It's first I can say thanks."

"That's true," she says, the words soft. She swallows. "You're taking this better than I thought you would."

He sighs. "I'm sad," he confesses. "But you don't say … I can't. You say not yet. I don't mind as much … not yet."

Her heart squeezes at the hope in his tone. She took away his plans, but she didn't take away his hope, and this is something he can live with, she thinks. Of course, he has his spectacular rock bottoms where even he can't find the glass half full, like the week after his last migraine, but his optimism outside those darkest moments never fails to amaze her.

"I promise next year, Derek. I'll write it on a contract in blood if I have to. I want you to have this."

"Blood?" he says, horror in his tone. "Please … … n-not hurt for me."

She grins. "It's a figure of speech. That's all. I just meant I'm serious."

"Oh," he says. "Th … thank you."

She tears her eyes from the road long enough to glance at him. "You're welcome," she says. And then she adds, "I love you."

"Yes," he says, the word thick.

She gets the strangest impression that this is his circumspect way of saying me, too, but she doesn't let herself hope. She lets the fact that she gets to spend her Thanksgiving with him, her alive husband, who can talk and walk and plan for the future and, hell, even bake a pie if he feels inclined, be enough. All things considered, she already has a busload of miracles to be thankful for right now.

* * *

Briar Cliff Elementary places incoming kindergarteners into three different reading groups based on current skill: the "Reading A" group, which is for the kids already reading primer books, the "Reading B" group, which is for the kids who already know the basics of literacy, and the "Reading C" group, which is for the kids who come in with no reading background whatsoever. Thanks to Meredith's and Melody's diligence, Zola's been placed in the "Reading B" group.

Zola's latest homework assignment involves matching pieces of words to various illustrations and partial spelling hints. Like, next to a picture of a bird, the clue says, "ird," and Zola has to draw a line from the letter b in the right column to the "ird" next to the bird picture in the left column.

In what's become a nightly father-daughter thing, Derek stares over Zola's shoulder, and they're working out the words together, sounding things out. Zola marks the paper with her pencil. Derek shakes his head, "No, I think .…" His lips move as he sounds the word out in his head, whatever it is. He traces the page with his finger. "I think this goes here." His index finger stops about midway down the page. He pauses, lips moving like he's trying to say something. After several false starts, he shakes his head and gives up with a miffed sigh. "See the big fish picture?"

Zola considers his suggestion for a moment, and then she presses her eraser into the paper. She scrunches her nose. "Whale has a letter h in the middle?"

Derek frowns. "Some letters have no sound," he says.

"Why're they there, then?" Zola says.

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sometime, I think it's for confuse me."

Zola laughs. "Daddy," she says in a humoring tone.

He grins at her. "English is maked of .…" He thinks. And thinks. "Made of. Of. Of word from many place. Some don't follow rules."

"Where is whale from?" Zola says.

"Hmm," he says with a look of deep thought creeping across his face. "You should ask Ms. Gandy." He wraps her up in a hug and presses his lips to the top of her head. "You tell me what she says, okay?"

Zola nods, and they move on to the next problem.

Meredith watches, transfixed. When Zola started school, Meredith never thought of this as a possible side-effect of homework. Them teaching each other to read. She's not sure why it didn't occur to her. Learning to read is something Derek's been toiling with for months. After teaching interns for several years, Meredith knows one of the best ways to learn is by trying to explain a concept to someone else. Maybe, this will help him. Zola, too. Meredith glances at her watch. She has to finish getting ready. Stewart will be here soon for babysitting duty, and Meredith has a bachelorette party to attend.

* * *

Since Derek's not quite ready for his maiden bus voyage, Meredith takes him to work with her on Thursday, so it'll be easier to make the wedding and the reception afterward without having to drive all over creation. While she's working, he spends most of his time hiding in Owen's office to avoid being pulled into unwanted conversation. He joins her and Callie and Maggie in the cafeteria for lunch, though, which is indescribably weird and nostalgic and draws gazes from a lot of prying eyes, but Callie goes watchdog on the whole affair and glares at anybody who tries to approach to say hello.

"You don't need to do this," Derek says, looking at Callie.

Callie frowns. "Do what?"

"Keep people away," he says. "You don't need."

Callie sighs. "Damn it; I thought I was being stealthy."

He gives her a wavering smile. "I … I …." He stops to think. "I don't like talk strangers, but … but I need learn." He swallows. "To learn." He thinks for another moment. "I … appreciate, though. Callie. Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says. "I'll stop. Let me know if you change your mind."

"Yes," Derek says.

And lunch continues. Derek nibbles on a cheeseburger he got in the cafeteria line. Maggie shovels a burrito she bought in the little taco shop across the street. Callie's working on some new tofu concoction, though, this time, it looks like a real meal, not just microwaved blocks of bean curd. She's made some sort of stir fry with broccoli and cashews mixed in, too.

"Does that taste better this time?" Meredith says.

Callie nods. "You almost can't tell it's got tofu in it."

"Why cook with ingredient …." Derek pauses. His mouth opens and closes as he struggles. "Not … not liked?"

Callie sighs. "It's this whole thing where I hate tofu, but I'm trying to have sex with somebody who loves it."

Derek frowns. "Oh," he says.

"Hi, everyone," Dr. Mike Weller says as he approaches with a tray. He smiles. "May I join you?"

Maggie glances at Derek first. Derek shrugs. Maggie smiles and gestures at the open seat. "Sure."

"Hi, Mike," Meredith says. She looks at Derek. Derek's never met the man who saved his life. Not since the accident, anyway. Mike used to be one of Derek's staff. They were never friend friends, but they were work friends. "Derek, this is Mike Weller. He's the surgeon who performed your second craniotomy."

Mike leans across the table, presenting his hand to Derek. "Derek, it's great to see you again."

Derek shakes Mike's hand. He swallows, and he has to think, but he manages a soft, "Hello."

Mike clears his throat roughly at the word, like he's touched beyond measure that Derek is in a position to be saying hello to him in the first place. Mike picks up his sandwich from his plate and takes a quick bite. He glances at his watch while he chews. "I have a T5 meningioma to resect in a few minutes, but I just had to say hello," he says. He beams at Derek. "I hear you've rediscovered your love of fishing."

Derek blinks. He glances at Meredith, and then back at Mike. His mouth opens and closes while he tries to formulate a response. A syllable catches in his throat. Mike is patient, and he says nothing to interrupt. Meredith is grateful that the first person who broke through Callie's collapsed glare barrier is one who has a keen understanding of what's going on in Derek's brain.

"Yes," Derek says after some stumbling. "Yes, I like to fish."

"Can I come sometime?" Mike says. "I've been meaning to try it for ages. Richard can't shut up about how relaxing it is."

Derek's eyes widen. A brief smile breaks through his nerves. "Yes," he says. "We … g-go again. After …." Another war, but Derek spits out, "Thanksgiving."

"Probably mid-December," Meredith chimes in, so Mike doesn't think this is the literal weekend after Thanksgiving.

"I look forward to it," Mike says without a hint of schmooze, and Meredith thinks he might mean it. That he's not just saying it to make conversation. He takes a huge bite out of his sandwich and swallows with a gulp. He wipes off his mouth with a paper napkin. "Listen, I have to run, but it was wonderful to see you, Derek. Really, it was." And Meredith can see it. The look in his eyes. This is why he became a surgeon. Just like Derek. To save lives.

Mike gathers his things in a rush and stands up with his tray.

"Thank you," Derek says, and Mike freezes. "Thank you for …." Derek has to look at the ceiling to think for a moment, and his lips move while he tries to eject a syllable. "F-fix. Thank you."

Mike grins. "You're very welcome," he says. His beeper adds an exclamation point to his sentence. He looks at it, waves at Derek and the rest of the table, and then he's off at a sprint.

* * *

Jo and Alex's wedding is a quick, intimate affair in the judge's office. When Jo invited Meredith and told her this wasn't going to be a big thing, she wasn't kidding. The only other person in attendance aside from Meredith, Derek, Jo, and Alex, is Stephanie, and Meredith's touched to the point of speechlessness that even after all the crap she's laid at Alex's feet the last year-and-a-half, she's been invited to this. To witness this. To participate. To hand Alex his ring. Alex wears a suit, and Jo wears a nice white dress, but nothing fancy. Meredith gets that. The lack of need for fanfare or ceremony, where the only important thing is having the person you love along with you for the ride.

"Jo Wilson," Alex says, "I love you. I didn't expect it. You snuck up on me." He smiles. "But you're my best friend." Jo smiles back at him. This little bit is his personal embellishment, but the vows themselves, he and Jo wrote together. They wanted no frills, no fairy tales, just the truth as they saw it. Meredith let Alex rehearse them to her over and over yesterday. "Today, I, Alex Karev, give my life to you," Alex continues. "I pledge to be with you always, to add my strength to your strength, to share my joy and sorrow with you in equal measure. Most of all, I pledge to stay, whether things between us are effortless or difficult, and to treasure you for all of my days."

Alex puts the tiny gold ring on Jo's finger.

"Alex Karev," Jo says, "I love you, too, and I didn't expect that, either." Alex snorts with amusement. Jo continues, with wet eyes, "I never expected to have this with someone. With you. But I'm so glad you came into my life."

Jo repeats the same vows Alex recited, and she puts a ring on Alex's finger.

Time seems to slow when they kiss.

Meredith glances up at Derek, leaning back into his arms. The vows were a lot of words crammed together in a small space like sardines, and she's not sure how much of it he followed, but he's smiling, so he seems to have gotten the sentiment, if not the message itself. When he catches her looking at him, he squeezes her shoulders, but seems not to want to steal the bride and groom's thunder, and doesn't do anything overt to express his affection back to her.

"Congratulation," Derek says, a hesitant murmur.

Alex looks at Derek with surprise in his expression. He smiles. "Dude, thanks. Thanks for coming."

"Thank you for including me," Meredith says.

Alex snorts. "You're my person, right? Of course, I'd include you." He wraps his arm around Jo's shoulder and kisses his new wife.

They all leave the courthouse together and head back to Meredith's old house.

* * *

"Did we … do this?" Derek asks in the car on the way to the party.

Meredith frowns. "Do what?"

"Get marry."

"We did," Meredith says. "But it wasn't like that with the personalized vows and the rings and everything." She pauses. "We needed to be married on paper in order to adopt Zola." Pause. "The Post-it thing was our real wedding. You remember the Post-it."

"Oh," he says. "Yes. I remember. Not all, but … pieces."

"Why do you ask?" she says.

He shrugs. "I wish I can remember."

"There's not much to remember," Meredith says. "All we did was say the canned words and sign the paper."

"Hmm," he says, and she waits for him to complete his thought, but he doesn't.

She pulls to a stop at a red light. Cars swish through the intersection perpendicular to her and Derek. She turns to Derek. "What are you thinking?"

"I …." He swallows, and he looks at her. "I wish I can remember."

She thinks for a long moment. There's no way to fix that. The holes in his memory. The damage that's been done to him. But they've been making new memories to fill the void. New firsts. "We could do it again," she says.

He frowns. "We can?"

"Sure," she says. "People renew their vows all the time. I don't see why we can't."

He stares at her. "I want this," he says. "Please. Meredith, I want …." He blinks and looks away. "I want this memory."

She smiles. "You said my name again."

"Meredith," he repeats without effort. "Meredith." The smile he gives her is a handsome one that makes her insides hurt. "Yes, I did." His eyes are wet. "I missed saying. Your name is…." He pauses, words thick with emotion. "Your name is pretty. I like to say."

"I missed hearing it," she admits. The light turns green, and she turns her gaze back to the road and hits the accelerator. She swallows. "And I'd love to renew my vows. We should. How about after the holidays die down?"

"I like this think," he says. "Think." He frowns and tries again. "Idea."

"We could make it a thing if you want," she says. "We could invite your family and all our friends. I don't want to do something nuts with frills and lace and girly silliness, but … we could make it special, at least."

Because it would be, she thinks. It would be as special as their Post-it. Maybe, even more so, because she's been given a gift. She recognizes it every day she wakes beside him in their bed. That he's alive to renew vows with her at all is a gift. That he's able to speak to renew those vows, also a gift. That he has the presence of mind to watch a marriage ceremony and decide that's something he wants for himself … all of it is a gift.

She grips the steering wheel so hard her hands hurt. "Would you like to marry me again next year?" she says.

He laughs. "You propose to me?"

"I guess I do," she says.

"I think … elevator was better."

She snorts. "Are you calling my proposal crappy?"

"Yes," he says as she parks in front of her old house. He unclips his seatbelt and leans to kiss her.

"What exactly are you saying yes to?" she says. "That you'd like to marry me, or that my proposal is crappy?"

But all he does is wink, and smile, and say, "Yes," again.

* * *

"We lived here?" he says as they step into the foyer. The floorboards creak as he shifts his weight to shrug off his coat. Everybody's already in the living room, chatting up a storm. The house is warm, and welcoming, and smells a little cinnamon-y, like someone's lit up some scented candles.

"Yes," Meredith says. "This is my old house. We lived here together for about four years. Remember anything?"

He stares at the hallway, eyes wide as he inspects every detail. After a few minutes, he shakes his head. "No, I don't." He sounds a little disappointed. "Nothing."

She untangles herself from her scarf and coat and hangs them in the coat closet. Derek follows suit. They wander together toward the sounds of voices. The living room and dining room are stuffed with people – Richard, Miranda, Ben, Maggie, Callie, Arizona, Stephanie, Owen, Amelia, Jackson, April, and a few miscellaneous co-workers Meredith doesn't know as well. The enclosed space is a thunder. Jo and Alex flit from person to person, making sure to socialize with everybody.

Miranda spots Derek like some sort of homing beacon and is the first to sidle over, wine glass in hand. "Derek, how are you?" she says. "You're looking great." She glances at Meredith. "I'd ask you, too, but I just saw you. I know how you are."

Meredith snorts.

"I'm fine," Derek says. He grins. "Meredith proposed in car."

Miranda frowns. "You fools know you're already married, right?"

Meredith laughs. "Third time's the charm?"

"I guess so," Miranda says. She gives them both a long, discerning look. "So, do I actually get an invite to this one?"

"Yes," Meredith says. She smiles. "I'm pretty sure we're making it a thing."

"Yes," Derek says. "A thing." He presses into her space to kiss her, and the room melts away.

* * *

"Have you seen my book?" Meredith says, biting her lip as she trawls through her nightstand drawer.

Derek, who's sitting with his back against the headboard, looks up from his magazine. For a long moment, he only stares, and she feels compelled to say, "I'm sorry to talk. I just wanted …." She sighs. "Sorry." She tries so hard to keep their bedroom the silent haven he wants it to be. She hates it when she slips up.

The dim lamplight turns his eyes black. Little Felix is curled up by Derek's hip, fast asleep on the bedspread. Derek's barely said a word since she picked him up from rehab, and what little he **has** said hasn't been all that coherent. He's been moving stiffly, like he hurt himself in physical therapy or something. He hasn't built up any reserves since his migraine, and though he's found his normal level of fluency again in the mornings, he's been more fried than normal by bedtime every rehab day this week. Today, though, he's fried like an egg. She hopes this weekend – having another Saturday and Sunday to sleep as late as he wants – will fix it.

He shakes his head at her and gives her a tiny smile. He struggles to eject, "… … N-no sorry. What … look?" He gives Felix a gentle stroke and pushes back the covers.

"Oh, you don't have to get up!" Meredith says, but she gets another head shake and a dismissive wave. She frowns. "It's um … purple. Purple-ish blue? It says _Outlander_ on the front. It's a paperback."

He nods, grabs his cane, and limps out of the room. She continues her search through her nightstand. She didn't see the book when she did a walkthrough of the house, or when she perused the bookshelf in her office where she keeps all her reading material. The last time she knows she had the book, she was reading it in bed. It stands to reason that the book is buried somewhere in the disorganized mess in here.

She's made a giant pile of books and papers and doodads – tweezers, pencils, a toenail clipper, a bottle of lotion, a brush, two buttons she has no idea why she has, bobby pins, a hairband, a- Derek places her book on top of her precarious, towering pile. She gapes and looks up at him.

"Where in the hell did you **find** this?" she says. "I thought I looked everywhere!"

He looks at the ceiling for a long moment, thinking while his jaw works. "… D … d … d-dry," he says.

At first, she can't fathom what he could mean by that. Dry? Dry what? Could he mean the dryer? But … what the hell? On the dryer? In the dryer? And why in the hell …? Wait. That's right. Melody asked if she could borrow the book that morning. She must have used the washer for something and forgotten the book there? Meredith shakes her head. Whatever. She's just happy to have her book back.

She puts her hand on his hip, squeezes, and smiles. "Thank you."

She expects him to head back to his side of the bed, now, but he doesn't budge. He stares at the pile of junk she's made. She frowns. "What?"

"What …?" Derek says. At first, she doesn't have any idea which item in her junk pile he's referring to, but then he makes a grab for it like the octopus he's become. He holds it in his hands and turns it over. He puts his finger on the plus button, and the thing skips to life. The motor hums. He flinches in surprise. "What?"

"That's a vibrator," Meredith says without embarrassment. She's never hidden this from him. Hell, he's used it on her. Hell, this particular one is **from** him. "It's for … making orgasms."

"Oh," he says, staring at the black, crescent-shaped device. He presses the plus button again, and the hum gets louder. "How?"

"Well, it's a lot easier to use than hands, and it can feel more intense," she says. "Remember how I said rhythmic motion feels good?"

"Yes," he says.

She closes her nightstand drawer and stands up. She steps closer to him and closes her hands over his, trapping the little vibrator in his grip. The hum quiets, muffled by his fingers. " **That** rhythmic motion feels **really** freaking good." She wraps her arms around him and kisses him. "You got me this one for Christmas, you know."

"I … … do?" he says. He opens his hands and hits the minus sign to turn off the vibrator.

She nods. "You did. To replace my old one. The motor in it died." She kisses him. "This one is really nice. You picked good." He stares at the vibrator for a long moment, but it seems like he doesn't know what to say or how to say it at this point. His expression is an easy one to read, though. "You want to try it?"

His nod brings a smile to her face, and she forgets all about her book.

* * *

There's nothing more surreal than having an orgasm while a kitten stares at you with beady yellow eyes. Felix mews for attention three inches from her face, but Meredith's wrapped in Derek's arms, and her limbs are twitching and useless as the sparks fly in her vision. He has one hand with the vibrator stuffed down the front of her pants, and his other arm wrapped around her torso. She's warm and safe and loved. Felix mews again and stalks forward to sniff Meredith's nose. She can hear Old Derek laughing in her head and making some sort of joke about a pussy. Or, maybe, in the absence of Old Derek's porny-ness, Meredith's dirty mind has picked up the slack.

When Meredith floats back to earth, she snorts at the blurry sight of Derek's hand reaching over her shoulder to pet the kitten. Felix mews and arches his bony little back, happy to accept the attention, no matter how _in flagrante_ it may be. When she can focus her eyes, though, she realizes Derek's hand is shaking. The whole limb is shaking. She reaches and pulls him away from the cat. His fingers curl as she strokes his skin. He was able to hold the vibrator, but, now, it seems like he can't even close his hand in a fist anymore, like those neural pathways are too fatigued to send messages.

She rolls to face him. A tiny, warm, furry body curls up at the small of her back. She kisses Derek and strokes him shoulder to hip. Hell, his whole body is trembling. The whole right side. "Hey, are you okay?"

He stares at her and swallows. "Rehab … m-make … hurt," he says, the words rough.

She knew he was aching after rehab, but … nothing like this. "We didn't have to do this, now."

But he gives her a tired grin. "I … want." He struggles for the words he wants. "Like … spend … you."

She frowns. Like spend you? That sounds kind of like an aphasia version of I like to finish you. But … kind of not. She pushes her fingers through his hair. "I don't understand you," she says, tone apologetic.

A flash of frustration crosses his gaze. He scoots closer. He kisses her. His embrace is a warm blanket despite his shaking arm and body. He kisses from her shoulder to her neck to her ear. "Spend … … time …," he clarifies, a murmur against her ear.

"You like to spend time with me?" she says, just to be sure.

He nods.

She gives him a warm smile. "I like spending time with you, too." This trembling on the right side of his body concerns her, though, because it doesn't seem to be subsiding. She strokes him shoulder to hip, trying to massage the aches away for him.

He picks up the vibrator he discarded when she fell off her cliff and holds it up between them. He works on words for what feels like a full minute before he manages, "I … use?"

She blinks at the question. She's never thought about using a vibrator on a man, before. To her, it was always common sense that men enjoy a very specific kind of friction, and a vibrator … doesn't offer that. But, really, why **shouldn't** a man enjoy a vibrator? It's like … yes, maybe, a man's favorite fruit is strawberries, but that doesn't mean a blueberry tastes bad. Maybe, a vibrator would be like a blueberry? And, crap, this metaphor is weird. She shakes her head.

"You know, I have **no** idea," Meredith says.

Derek looks at her with surprise.

"Contrary to the impression I may have given you, I'm not a walking encyclopedia of all things sex," she says with a snort. He frowns at that. She clarifies by paring down to, "I don't know everything about sex." She takes the vibrator from him with a grin. "Want to find out something new for both of us?"

Porn is proven pain relief, after all.

* * *

Candles light the bathroom with a soft glow. Felix watches them from the lip of the tub, tail twitching as he sizes up this wet-and-getting-wetter situation. Water falls from the spigot into the tub, filling the bath with frothy, hot water.

"I don't think you'd like a bath," she tells the kitten.

Felix doesn't seem to agree, though. He reaches out with a tiny paw and bats at the water rushing from the spigot. One touch of his paw pads to wetness, and his hair stands on end. He gives them an affronted look, and then he jumps back to the floor.

"Tried to tell you," Meredith says with a snort as the kitten trots out of the room. She reaches around Derek to turn off the water, and then lies back.

The warm bath water envelopes her. The bath salts she dissolved give the water an odd, slippery feel, and the air smells of lavender. His body is a blast of heat in front of her, but the porcelain tub is freezing against her back, and she grits her teeth while her body gets accustomed to the unevenly-baking sandwich she's found herself in. She's not used to being the "big spoon" with him, particularly in the bathtub, and it's a bit awkward for her. He slides down into the water so he's able to put his head on her shoulder. He tips his head and presses his lips against her neck. His legs are spread wide. His knees rest above the water against the sides of the tub. She rubs the flat of her palm against his belly, up his chest, and then back down, and up, and down in a slow massage. He heaves a huge sigh.

"Does this feel good?" she says against his ear.

He nods. His eyelids dip. Water sloshes as she shifts.

"Sorry you're hurting," she says.

Another sigh.

She hopes, even if the porny part of this bath doesn't help, a long soak in a warm tub will work some healing magic for him. She takes the vibrator from the lip of the tub where she left it and flips the switch to its lowest setting. She runs it up and down his body, circling his nipples, his navel. He remains relaxed and slack in her arms, kissing her occasionally.

"So, I guess we see now if this works for you," she murmurs.

"Yes," he rumbles, and she dips the little vibrator under the surface of the water.

She presses the vibrator against the inside of Derek's thigh and slides up to his groin. She gets no reaction. The second she touches his balls, though, he jerks, and the water sloshes. She pulls the vibrator away. "Was that good or bad?" she says, frowning.

"I … I … I like," he says, a rough, struggling whisper.

She tips her head and kisses him. "Okay, good," she says. And she tries again.

She starts at his inner thigh and moves inward toward his groin, giving him a chance to get used to the feeling. She rubs a slow circle against his balls. He shudders, but aside from his initial surprise, she doesn't get much of a reaction, and he's still flaccid. She hits the plus a few times. His breathing tightens a little. She goes for broke and slides from the base of his cock to the tip. She circles his corona and comes to rest on the head. She presses. He arcs backward and inhales.

"Good?" she says, grinning as she feels blood rushing to make him ready, filling him.

A vibrator. Definitely not just for women. Who'd have thought?

She considers all the things she knows Derek likes. On an experimental whim, she reaches around his body with her other hand to cup him, lift him. She hesitates for a moment when her palms meet soft, feathery skin. "This is okay, right?" she says, just to be sure. He nods. "Okay." And with that confirmation, she plunges with the vibrator underneath the bounty in her left hand and presses into his perineum.

Holy. Freaking. Jackpot.

His whole body locks up, and a hitching moan falls from his lips. She presses harder. The moan becomes a bark, and his body tightens like a screw in her arms. She hits the plus sign, revving up the vibrator a bit more. He pants like he can't catch his breath. His erection, which was ho-hum slow to appear at first, roars the rest of the way into existence. The warm, thick, full length of him rests against his belly. The very tip comes out of the water.

With the vibrator, she eases into a slow massage of that jackpot spot she found and begins a more traditional hand job with her other hand, pumping him, also slow and steady. Water sloshes as she settles into a plodding rhythm. When she looks to the side to gauge his enjoyment, she sees him staring back at her with a heady euphoria clouding his eyes, and in that moment, a wave of feeling bowls her over. That she has her husband alive and whole and looking at her like that, after all the crap they've been through, is a high better than a truckload of morphine, and her eyes get wet as she looks back at him. She may not have what she wants – Derek whole and healed and never hurt – but she has what she needs. Derek. Whole. And healed **enough**.

He grabs the edges of the tub with trembling hands. His right hand can't grip very well anymore, but his left is white-knuckled. His breaths bluster against her neck. He doesn't speak, doesn't encourage her, but from the look on his face and the way his whole body is shaking with tension, he's too discombobulated by this whole experience to say anything.

His release is an explosion. That's the only way she can describe it. He looses a fantastical, base, throaty sort of, "Oh!" that makes her spine tingle. His whole body jerks in her arms, and his erection kicks to life in her hand. His feet squeak against the tub floor. He spills himself into the bathwater. And then he goes slack like jelly in her arms.

She turns off the vibrator and drops it on the bathmat. She shifts her position so she can pull her fingers through his hair. He's staring at nothing through half-lidded eyes and dark eyelashes, whole body limp with post-orgasmic lassitude.

She grins. "I guess the blueberry does taste good," she snarks, and she kisses him.

She grabs a washcloth and some soap and lathers up the terrycloth. He dozes in her arms while she massages the rest of the aches from rehab away. She swallows against the lump in her throat.

"I'm **really** glad you're in my bathtub," she whispers.

She's pretty sure his responding, sleepy, "Hmm," means, "Me, too."

* * *

Though zombie movies are not Meredith's thing, Sarah wanted to see the latest _Resident Evil_ movie, and Meredith's happy to offer an arm to cling to, since Stewart won't go to scary movies. _They make me scream,_ Stewart said. _I don't have a pretty scream._ It's a Saturday night, a popular night for moviegoing crowds, and the lobby at the theater is cacophonous. Meredith has to raise her voice to be heard over the ebb and flow of hundreds of different conversations.

"Would you guys like to come to Thanksgiving dinner at our house?" Meredith says as they stand in line at the concession stand to grab a tub of popcorn and some sodas.

Sarah frowns. "I thought you were going to New York."

"We were," Meredith says as the line moves, and they shuffle forward a step, "but Derek's occupational therapist thinks sending Derek alone on a train at this point is biting off a bit more than he can chew."

"Really?" Sarah says, frowning. "Train riding doesn't seem that complicated to me."

"It didn't to me, either, until Dean pointed out all the obstacles Derek's going to have to deal with."

"The problem is only that Derek can't go alone, yet?" Sarah says, a musing expression on her face. "It's not that riding a train would hurt him like a plane would?"

"I feel so awful," Meredith says, a new lump forming in her throat as she thinks about the emotional roller coaster Derek's been trapped on the past few weeks as his expectations for the future are shuffled and reshuffled and reshuffled. You can go! You can't go! You can go! You can't go! "I feel **awful** for getting his hopes up about this and then crushing them all over again. He took it pretty well, but … I feel awful."

"Meredith."

Meredith shakes herself out of her mental spiral. Sarah's staring at her with deep concern in her cobalt eyes. "What?" Meredith says.

"The problem is just that he can't go alone, yes?"

"Yes," Meredith replies, nodding.

"Well, Stu could go with him," Sarah says. "I mean, I don't want to volunteer him for sure without talking to him, so don't tell Derek, yet, but I'm sure he'd say yes."

Meredith shakes her head. "Come again?"

The next customers in line, a pair of men, get their nachos and soda and leave. The line moves forward. Meredith and Sarah step with it.

"Stewart," Sarah says. "Stewart can ride the train with Derek."

"You're not staying here for Thanksgiving?"

"No," Sarah says. "All my family is in Manhattan, and Stewart has no family to visit."

"You never said anything!" Meredith says.

"I didn't know it needed saying!"

"Are you serious?" Meredith says. "Stewart can go?"

Sarah shrugs. "I don't see why not."

"I don't know what to say. I …."

"You know what? Hang on," Sarah says. She smiles and pulls out her cellphone, jiggling it in the air for emphasis. "I'll ask him right now." She takes her phone and darts outside with it while Meredith holds their place in line.

A teenage girl walks away from the register with a bag of gummy bears. The line steps forward. Sarah returns after about two customers and three minutes later, and Meredith watches as Sarah trots back to the concession line. As her new person gets closer, Meredith feels a slow smile stretch across her face, because Sarah is grinning back, and then she gives Meredith a thumbs up sign.

Derek's roller coaster is back on a, "You can go!" incline.


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Notes**

Ahhh! Graduated from sorta behind to totally behind on comments, but I truly appreciate them all, and promise to catch up this weekend :) Thank you so much for taking the time to post reviews! They mean the world to me.

So, chapter 27. The finale before the finale. Hard to believe there's only 1 chapter and an epilogue left after this! It's been a journey. That's for sure! I'm glad you all have come along with me on my little fictional jaunt :)

* * *

 **Week twenty-seven.**

Derek was smart with his money. At his peak, he was pulling in something like $950,000 a year – an astronomical amount for a neurosurgeon in the United States. For sure, his salary was in the 99th percentile for surgeons of his type. He lived miles below his means, though, and he had his financial advisor handle the rest. It's damned hard for a man not to save money when he's making nearly a million a year, yet only living like his salary is a fifth of that.

But Derek's accident was what one would call a catastrophic financial event. Even after insurance, even after Seattle Grace offered an employee discount, between the ambulance service, an ER visit, two craniotomies, both more than $100,000 a pop, a six-week hospital stay, almost a year living in a top-notch rehab facility, and three-times-weekly visits to that same top-notch rehab facility after that, Meredith was responsible for hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical bills, bills she never would have been able to pay on her meager-in-comparison general-surgeon salary. As it was, other than his retirement accounts, the account he set up to cover her care should she develop Alzheimer's, and the two accounts he set up for college funds for the kids, his savings were, at this point, almost cleaned out.

Big, unexpected expenses were going to start hurting, soon. Meredith made enough by herself to, with budgeting, keep them comfortable, pay Melody, keep Derek in rehab, and keep their mortgage payment checks from bouncing, but not enough to save. Not enough to absorb unplanned things like Derek being transported via ambulance to the ER for a migraine, having zillions of dollars worth of tests done, and being kept under observation overnight, even after insurance paid its chunk.

She only has to hold out until Derek's not in rehab anymore, though – maybe another year or two – and then she can start recouping money instead of bleeding it.

She could pay this newest bill with Derek's dwindling savings. Or, she could sell his trailer.

She can't decide which option hurts more.

* * *

She has Stewart keep an eye on the kids for a little bit while she takes Derek out to the trailer to have a look at it. Owen used to live here, but he moved out to get a place downtown with Amelia a few months before Derek was released from rehab. Now, it's empty. Barren. Lifeless.

Derek eyes the trailer with a frown as they approach. When they reach the leaf-covered, rotting deck, he puts his hand on the silver metal encasing the trailer. The wood creaks as Derek's weight shifts. "I lived in this box?" he says.

She nods. "Yes, you lived here for about two years before you moved in with me. Remember any of it?"

He closes his eyes and stands still for a long moment. The sky is gray. The air smells of earth and is biting cold thanks to the drizzly humidity. Not deterred, birds chirp and sing in the trees, many of which are still green, though the deciduous trees have died off for the winter. After what feels like a minute or two, Derek shakes his head.

"Nothing," he says, and his frown deepens. "I hate how much me is gone."

She's not sure what to say to that, so she says nothing. She hates how much of him is gone, too. How much of **them** is gone. But she loves discovering how much of him is new. And she loves making new memories with him.

"Do you want to look inside?" she says.

He shrugs. The deck creaks as he steps toward the door, yanks on the handle, and steps inside. She follows.

He stands in the narrow aisle between the tiny kitchenette and the table, frowning. He shuffles forward, making an irritated sound when his right foot catches on one of the lower cabinets. It takes him a moment to correct his course. He opens the doors to the shower and the bathroom. The shower stall is on the left, and the bathroom is on the right. He keeps moving to the bedroom, where a queen-sized bed resides.

When he finishes his appraisal, he says, "I see why I pressured you for house."

She laughs. "Not loving the trailer thing, anymore, I take it?"

He shakes his head. "I like space."

"You've **always** liked space," she counters.

His eyes narrow. "This box doesn't agree."

"It's called a trailer."

"Box is more description," he says. And then he frowns. "Description?"

She shakes her head. "Descriptive."

He mouths the word, filing that away. He gives the "box" one last appraisal. He shakes his head. "This is not sentimental to me."

"So, you wouldn't care if I sold it?" she says.

He shrugs. "No."

"I don't know," she says, sighing. "I just …. I can't decide. We have a lot of memories here. It feels **wrong** to be thinking of selling it."

But it's silly to keep this when nobody is using it, they need the money, and it would sell for so much. She'd have to get it appraised to be sure, but she thinks, based on a little Internet research, this is a "box" that's worth at **least** $40,000. Perhaps much more. And that's **silly** to keep when it's unused, right?

"I'm sorry," he says, tearing her from her musing.

She frowns. "Sorry for what?"

"This is to pay for me."

"Derek, I love you, but shut up," she says. "Shut up right now."

His eyebrows raise, and a sound catches in his throat. He shifts from foot to foot. "I'm sorry. Did I … say … a wrong thing?"

"Don't you dare apologize for getting sick," she says. "It's not your fault. And this trailer? This is just stuff. But there's no replacing you. For you or Zola or Bailey, I'd sell this thing in a heartbeat. The only reason I'm having a hard time right now is that I have a choice between selling this or plundering what's left of our savings."

He doesn't have a reply for that. He sits on the edge of the bed, taking weight off his leg. He walked the whole way to the trailer with no cane. She treads down the aisle and drops next to him. The mattress makes him bounce an inch as her weight descends.

"What remember do we have here?" he says.

She wraps her arm over his shoulder and sighs. "Well, the first night you brought me here was a shock. We had some great sex that night. In the morning, we had coffee on the deck and watched the sunrise, and then you went and caught a trout for breakfast." She snorts. "I remember thinking you were an axe murderer."

He frowns at her. "What is axe murder?"

"Someone who kills with an axe," Meredith says. And before he can ask, she adds, "An axe is a … tool for chopping wood."

He stares at her for a long moment. "You thought I killed people?"

"You had no stuff. None. The real reason was because you'd left New York in a hurry," she says, "but at the time, I had all sorts of crazy speculation. I mean, it's just not **normal** for a forty-year-old man to have only three shirts."

He takes a long time with her word explosion. Churning through it. "Speculation?"

"Um," she says. "Um … a guess?" She thinks for a moment. "Oh," she says, snapping her fingers. "It's a guess without much evidence."

"And you speculation I'm murder?" he says, eyebrows creeping toward his hairline.

"My other thought was that you were in the witness protection program," she says.

His frown deepens. "What is this?"

"If you witness a horrible crime, sometimes the police disguise you."

His frown deepens even further. "I'm murder or witness of murder?" He licks his lips. A sound catches in his throat. "I don't want to kill people." Another word gets stuck. "Why do you think I kill people?"

She swallows. Crap, she forgets sometimes how literal he is, now. She wraps her arms around him and gives him a hug. "Derek, I'm joking with you. I swear. I know you'd never hurt anyone."

"Oh," he says.

"I'm just telling you the crazy doomsday hyperbole I come up with sometimes when I'm left to stew," she says.

He sighs. He sounds frustrated. "What is … doomsday … hy … hy …?" And, now, he's getting upset. "I can't say this."

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry, Derek. I'm not doing the talking thing very well with you today, am I?"

He squeezes his eyes shut. A noise catches in his throat. "I hate you … talk … special." He swallows. "I want … talk." His gaze is shards of broken glass. "I want talk to you."

The upset angst in his tone breaks her heart. He's been in a better mood this week. A much better mood. But grieving can be a long process prone to triggered descents back into sadness, even from smiles. She tightens her embrace and kisses him. She didn't mean to make him feel bad.

"I wish I … not … think how stupid I sound."

"You're not stupid, Derek," she insists.

He shrugs. His eyes are wet. "I **feel** stupid. **All** the time. Bailey talk … better. Everyone think I … stupid."

A flash of anger poleaxes her. Not at him. At the fact that bad luck has done so much damage to him. Because Derek is smart. He's always been smart. He's **still** smart. She hates that the world is so language-centric that he can't escape constant reminders of his impediment. And she **hates** watching him be his own worst critic. That's an aspect of Old Derek that stuck like superglue. His tendency to stew. His tendency for self-hate. Why couldn't that have been erased along with everything else?

"Not everyone," she says, a whisper. She kisses him again. "Stop insulting my husband."

"I'm sorry," he says. He clears his through roughly. "I'm sorry. I feel bad. I worry I mess up on bus." He swallows and takes a shaky breath. "I want to be able **so** much."

She presses against his lips, silencing him. A moan catches in his throat, and she drinks it. He tastes minty, like he's brushed his teeth recently. His tongue slides against hers. The world tilts as she pushes him back on the bed. She gathers a tent of his t-shirt in her fingertips.

"What are you doing?" he mumbles against her lips.

"Making you feel better," she says. She wants to tell him he won't have problems on the bus, but she can't. She sees the bus running into a tree. She sees the bus rolling into a ditch. She sees an anvil dropping onto the bus from the sky like in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon. She'd be lying through her teeth if she said she knew his trip would be problem free, and he'd know it the second she tried to placate him. This isn't so much a reflection of him as it is her rabid crazy. But, either way, she can't talk about the bus right now, because the second her mind goes in that direction, she starts feeling panicky. "Making me feel better."

"You don't feel good?"

She sighs. "I worry, too. Remember my crazy?"

"Oh," he says, looking even more glum.

"Sorry, I'm not Supportive Girl, able to leap tall panic attacks in a single bound," she says.

"… What?" he says.

She shakes her head. Why does she suck at the talking thing today? "Never mind. Sorry."

"Okay."

She slips her hand under the waistband of his jeans while she plies his lips. The covers rustle as he shifts. He presses himself against her palm, and she delights in the way he arcs backward with a sigh when she cups him. She needs him. She needs him against her. Here. Breathing her air. Existing in her space. Sex, even the not-sex sex they have, always makes her feel better. Safe.

She pops the buttons loose on his fly, giving her more room to work. Somehow, though, control shifts. He rolls, and then he's on top of her, in the dominant position, kissing her, touching her, stripping her. Her shirt lands beside the bed. Her bra. Her skin is enveloped in a cold chill.

"What are **you** doing?" she murmurs.

"I feel better make you feel better," he says.

"Oh," she says. She grins. "Well, if you insist."

He unzips her jeans and pulls them off her hips. She kicks off her shoes so there's no apparel tangle at her ankles. Her jeans join her shirt and bra on the floor. Her panties land, next, and he pets her inner thigh. Her core.

"You kissed me here," he says as he rubs her.

She bites her lip. "I did?"

"Yes," he says. "You kiss, and then you lick."

"Right, that's … ohh," she says, the vague shimmer of the hand job she gave him dissipating in her mind's eye when he switches to a button push.

"Can I try?" he says. He kisses her chest, and then works his way down to her navel, licking a trail.

Another button push, and she gasps. "You want to kiss me there?"

"Yes," he says.

He hasn't done **that** in … in …. A slow, wending circle takes her estimation away. "Yes," she says. "Yes, go ahead." As if there was ever a chance she'd say no. She arcs backward, nipples puckered like pencil erasers in the chilly air. He spreads her legs like he's opening a book.

He kisses her. There. He kisses her there. He's kissing her **there**. He's- "Oh, my god," she says, panting when she feels his tongue against her skin. Her insides tighten, and her breaths funnel into tight gasps. She grabs at his hair, scrunching her fingers. She has to be pulling. She **has** to be pulling. But she needs to hold something, and he's not complaining. She moans as he explores, and then he stops.

"Please, don't stop," she says, panting. "Please, please, you can't stop."

He lifts his head, resting his ear against her thigh, and grins up at her. "This feel better than hands to you?" he says.

"Yes," she says, a clipped, tiny syllable. "Yes, that's um. That's um. That's getting pretty close to the goodness of sex. Not quite. But pretty good."

"Hmm," he says, like he's been given a new puzzle to solve.

The covers rustle as he slides back, and then he kisses her again. And again. And again. He strokes her thigh with his hand. His grip closes, and he squeezes her. She jerks and gasps like she's been stung when his tongue presses against her again. He takes his cumulative hand lessons and translates them to his mouth. Steady, rhythmic motion. He laves her skin with a swipe of his tongue, and another swipe, and another.

"That's really good," she says, encouraging him with a relaxed, drunk-ish murmur.

She stares at the gray clouds through his skylight, and then she lets her eyes space. Her vision blurs. She loses track of the world. Her tension builds like she's on the first hill of a roller coaster, ratcheting higher and higher and higher with each click, clack, clack of the cars being pulled up the track. There's a moment at the top where she straddles the line between rising and falling, and she can't breathe, and she can't think about anything except wanting the final push.

It's a button press that does it. Sends her flying into free fall. Sometimes, her releases are gentle. Other times they make her feel like every muscle in her body is twitching with abandon. This one falls into the latter category. Her insides tighten to a pinpoint like she's stuck in a black hole, and then her lower body throbs with rhythmic pleasure as it all explodes back into a supernova. She's relaxed and stuporous as the heady sensation falls into silence.

By the time she starts paying attention to things again, Derek's twinkling eyes are inches from hers. He's stroking her hair, and he has a pleased grin on his face that reminds her of his cocky days of yore. It's an I-did-that grin that takes years off his face.

"I see now why you kiss there," Derek says.

She snorts as he pulls her into his arms. He's still dressed except for his open fly. She's naked. His body is warm, and his presence wraps her in a warm, safe, loved bubble.

"Do you feel better?" he says. Another grin. Amplified. Damn- **straight** -I-did-that. "I feel better."

"Mmm-hmm," she mumbles. She listens to him breathing. It's such a nice sound. "When this buzz wears off, I'm doing you. Just FYI."

He snickers. He kisses the top of her head. "I think of one problem."

"Oh?"

"This box is sentimental, now."

She laughs. "Savings account it is, I guess," she says. She kisses him. "You can take this camping or something. I think I wouldn't mind camping if we did it in the trailer."

"I thought camping is in a tent."

She shrugs. Grins. "Depends on whether your definition of camping is going with me, or going with Stewart."

"Hmm," is his only reply, and she's too discombobulated to translate hmms right now.

A long silence stretches as she rests against him. They watch the sky through the skylight together.

"Meredith?" he says.

She looks up at him. Kisses his jaw. His mouth. "What?"

"Thank you for take the hurt away."

A lump forms in her throat. She's too touched to reply. She kisses him, instead.

* * *

On Monday, after Derek puts the kids to bed, he doesn't come back into the living room. She doesn't think much of it at the time. He gets tired on the nights after rehab, and he tends to head to bed earlier than she does. When she's ready to call it a night, though, she puts away her book and heads into the bedroom, only to find him lying on his back on his side of the bed, staring at the ceiling by the dim glow of the lamp as he pets Felix, who's curled up in a tiny ball on Derek's chest. The look on his face is a preoccupied one.

She bites her lip and forces herself not to ask him what's wrong. She heads into the bathroom to get herself ready for bed. When she comes back out, he hasn't moved.

It's not until she's reaching to turn out her light that she hears a quiet, hesitant, "Meredith?" When she looks at him, eyebrows raised, he adds in halting syllables, "I'm … sorry if scare, but I'm worry about bus."

The raw vulnerability in his tone cuts her to the quick. She bites her lip. The last thing she wants to talk about is his bus trip tomorrow. She's been doing a good job at living in la-la-la-can't-hear-you denial today. But … the last **last** thing she wants is for him to come to her for reassurance, and feel rebuffed. She doesn't ever want to go back to how they used to be. Never talking. Skating through marriage with sex as a hollow substitute for real intimacy. She never realized how dysfunctional they were before the accident until recently, as they've pieced their relationship back together from obliteration. She never had anything to compare to, before.

She fell back on that yesterday, she realizes. Sex to replace talking. Damn it.

She needs to not freaking do that.

She rolls onto her stomach and scoots closer to him, propping herself up on her elbows. The sheets rustle as she moves. "Can you tell me why? Is there something you don't think you understand?"

"N … no, I …." He sighs. "Dean and I ride downtown. I … I understand. When he help. I …." Derek's quiet for a long time, thinking. "I … don't want stuck here," he begins, a tentative, halting offering. He gauges her reaction. His eyes are dark and opaque in the dim lamplight. She's not sure what he's looking for, but he seems to find it. He continues, "I want … see. I want …. I want go … alone. I … never leave here alone. I … want able … buy grocery. Go park with Zo Bailey. I … I … I …." He gets stuck like a broken record, and his voice trails away. He gives her an upset look. "If I mess up, I can't … do this things." His eyes are wet when he adds, "I don't want stuck here anymore." He lifts his hand from Felix's soft fur to wipe at his face. "I don't want mess up." He swallows. He wipes his face again. "I'm sorry if scare."

Her chest tightens. She isn't scared. She's freaking terrified. She counts to five and shoves it all into her mental box, like she does before a tough surgery. Her mental box, in this moment, is a cardboard shantytown held together with prayer and tape, but it's better than nothing. She takes a deep breath, and she blows it out.

She can do this.

"Derek, if you mess up," she says, "that doesn't mean you can't do the things you want to do. It just means the bus will take more than one try to figure out."

"What if I never figure out?"

"That's not going to happen, Derek."

"But … what if-"

"We'll move downtown or something."

He frowns. "What?"

She gives Felix a nudge. The kitten climbs down from his perch, and Meredith rests her head against Derek where Felix lay. She wraps her left arm over his waist. He pulls his fingers through her hair, and she lets her eyelids dip in response. "I don't want you to feel like you're living in a prison," she murmurs. "If you can't figure out the bus, we'll move downtown, so you can walk places. Or, maybe, we could hire a driver service for you. Something. We'll figure it out. There are options."

"Really?"

"I want you to be happy," she says. "I don't want you to feel like our home is your prison."

"I'm … I'm …." His mouth works while he thinks. "I don't think it's prison. I'm … glad … you. I …." He grunts, voice thick with emotion. "I don't know how say this."

"I know you appreciate me," she says, the words soft and gentle. "I know you're thankful I take you places. I know you love this house. That doesn't mean you have to like the living situation. I wouldn't like it, either."

He peers down at her. "You … will not like?"

"Nobody likes to feel trapped," she says.

She kisses him and sighs. She hates that he thinks he's not going to get this bus thing. It's not just a scary thing to her, thinking about him stranded and hurt somewhere, needing help. It's a heartbreaking thing, too, that he's concerned that he's too stupid to understand how to travel from point A to point B on his own, and she finds herself again wishing that his tendency for self-critique had died along with his ego when the freaking truck smashed him.

"I know you don't think it," she says, fingers worrying at his t-shirt, "but you're smart, Derek. I think you're as smart as you used to be. I don't think the accident took that away from you. You learn how to do things with very little demonstration. And you figure out nonverbal stuff with bare threads for clues. I've watched you do it. I wish you wouldn't worry."

He's silent for a long time. "You … think I'm smart?" he says in a soft, dumbfounded voice.

" **Yes,** I think you're smart," she says. She frowns at him. "Did you think I thought you were stupid?"

He looks away. "No, but .…"

She swallows, thinking back. In the process of trying to tell him to stop worrying about his language deficits, she's told him more times than she can count that he's not stupid. She realizes, though, that she's never once told him he's smart.

He gives her an upset expression. "I feel … very slow … sometime."

She scoots closer. She runs her fingers through his hair. She kisses him. "Slow doesn't mean stupid," she says. "Don't try to compare how fast you think to how much you can understand. That's an apple and an orange."

He frowns at her. "Sorry, that's an expression," she says. "Saying you're trying to compare apples to oranges means you're trying to compare incomparable things."

"Apple orange … both fruit," he says, frown deepening. "They c … compare."

She snorts and kisses him again. "I think," she says. Another kiss. "That you just proved my point, Mr. Smartypants." Another kiss. A deep, rumbly chuckle falls loose from his lips, and she sees a spark in his eyes that wasn't there when she lay down. "You'll figure out the bus, okay? Maybe, it'll take a few tries, but that doesn't mean you're not smart."

"I wish I'm more fast," he says.

"I know you do. But, Derek, you've gotten so much better. Just over these last seven months or so. When I first brought you home, more than one or two things happening at once, or something happening too fast, could shut you down **so** easily, and, now, the shutdowns hardly ever happen."

"I'm … better?" he says.

She grins and nods. "I know it's probably hard to see from your perspective, but from where I am, it's been incredible. Your mom saw it, too."

He considers this. "This why she hug me all times?"

"Yes!" she says with a snort.

Moments pass. A smile stretches across his face. "Maybe, I get more fast," he says, hope blooming in his tone.

"I think you will," she says. "But even if you don't, you're still smart."

He pulls his fingers through her hair and sighs. "I want … take class," he says, musing. He glances at her. "When I can ride bus, I want … take class. I want know thing."

Her grin goes supernova. He's planning, now. He's hoping and planning, and it's so nice to see.

The rehab center couldn't help her with finding a parenting class for him, but she knows from the bulletin boards outside Todd's office how many remedial adult education classes are available if one looks for them. And, while Derek has trouble talking, he's gotten great at listening and comprehending what's being said to him. She thinks, though it would be a challenge, he could keep up in a class. At the very least, he could keep up in a class geared toward the learning disabled.

"I'm sure we could find something for you," she says.

"I want this," he says.

She nods. "Let's meet with Todd after Thanksgiving and talk about it."

"Okay."

They pass the moments in comfortable silence. He strokes her shoulder to elbow, idle, absent petting as he thinks about other things. She sighs and lets herself enjoy the feel of him against her, alive and breathing and okay. She doesn't think she'll ever get over that addiction – listening to him breathing.

Reassurance? Success.

The silence, though, is letting her think, and her mind drifts back to her phobias – him dying helpless and alone in a ditch somewhere because the universe hates them like it hated the Hindenburg. She bites her lip. She doesn't want to dump on him, not after she's bolstered his confidence. She wants to distract herself. Maybe, she can frame a diversion for her negativity in a way that would be encouraging for him? She considers options for a moment.

"I have an idea," she says.

He raises his eyebrows. "What?"

Reassuring him about his ability to handle the bus made her feel better, however briefly. Maybe, if she can keep pounding into her head that this whole Derek-on-a-bus thing is a positive activity, she can force her brain to rewire itself. She flips back the covers and slides out of bed.

"Meredith-"

She holds up her index finger in the universal sign for, "Wait one moment." And then she dashes to the bookshelf in her office. Her shelves are a disorganized, cluttered mess, but she finds what she's looking for in a few minutes.

He's frowning when she returns. "Meredith …?"

"Let's plan the first place in Seattle you'll go for fun," she says as she flops back onto their bed beside him. She foists her bounty at him. It's an old tourist book she bought on a whim when she moved back here, sort of a mindless … I-should-have-one-of-these purchase that she never ended up using.

He touches the space under the title with his index finger, slowly dragging from left to right as he reads. _101 Things_ _t_ _o Do In Seattle_. "I go place for fun soon," he says, staring at the title. The excitement in his tone is a thick, palpable thing she could eat with a fork and knife, and his grin when he looks at her is nuclear.

He cracks open the book, which is a thick paperback, and he's ginger with it, like he doesn't want to mess up the glue at the spine. He flips a few pages. The text in this book is going to be way too complicated for him to read in a reasonable amount of time, but there are so many pictures, she's hoping the text won't matter as much.

He pauses on the page with the Space Needle. "We went here," he says, thumb petting the picture.

She frowns. She can't imagine why, given his new acrophobia, but …. "You want to go again?"

He looses a hesitant laugh and shakes his head. "I … I think someplace not tall," he says in a soft, self-deprecating tone. He keeps flipping pages.

"Oh, what about this one?" Meredith says, lowering her hand to the page to stop his perusal. "You could take the ferry to Bainbridge and then go for a horseback ride." He loved his fake-memory horseback ride in the hospital, after all.

"Bainbridge island we went?"

"Yep."

He shakes his head. "I think someplace new." More pages flip.

"The zoo?" Meredith says, halting his search once again. She grins at him. "They have lions, you know."

That gets his attention. "I can see lion Seattle?"

She giggles. She can't help it. "Yes, you can."

"Why do you laugh?" he says.

"Just another irony on steroids moment," she says.

"Oh," he says. "I see much lion Seattle before?"

She kisses him. "You could say that."

"I want." He points at the page with a picture of the Woodland Park Zoo sign. "I want here."

"Tell you what," Meredith says. "I'll help you plan a bus route to Woodland Park when we get back from Thanksgiving."

"Okay." He pauses for a moment, and then he looks at her, affection clouding his gaze. "Will you go for … w … with me?"

She grins. That kind of destroys the whole purpose of finding somewhere for him to go alone, so he can express his independence, but …. "It's a date," she says. And she kisses him again.

A deep, gruff, discombobulated sound lingers in his throat. He pushes the book away, digs his left knee into the mattress, and rolls into straddling her. He plunges his fingers into her hair as he plunders her with his mouth.

Distraction? Holy. Freaking. Success.

* * *

She tries to pretend that Tuesday is a normal day. She's proud of herself when she says goodbye to Derek without behaving like a clingy mental case. She drops Zola off at school and makes it all the way to the hospital before she feels like her chest is stuck in a trash compactor, being constricted, and she can't breathe.

Alex and Jo took the week off. Callie and Maggie are in surgery. She has nobody to talk to. She can't even throw herself into her work, because she has none. She has no freaking work. The ER is empty, and she has no electives scheduled.

It's like the universe wants her to think about Derek and suffer. Frankly, given her life, she's not unconvinced the universe is a sentient creature who delights in making her pay. For what, she doesn't know. But she pays, and pays, and pays, and she hates it. She's freaking broke.

She finds Richard in the darkened gallery of OR 2. The surgery below is a boring one. Some sort of cyst removal. Nobody sits in the gallery watching, except Richard, who's not watching so much as working on charts. Meredith thinks this might be his "really old guy" room.

"Meredith," he says, looking up at her with a smile. "Hello."

She stares at him for a moment. "I need you to tell me everything is fine."

He frowns, but he says it. "Everything is fine."

The iron jaw around her chest doesn't lessen its bite, though. Her vision is spotty. She thinks she might be close to hyperventilating. "Meredith?" she hears across a long canyon, like the echo of a ghost, and she wonders if she's lost time in a ditch somewhere, because Richard moved five feet between one blink and the next. Warm arms wrap around her. "Meredith?" the voice repeats, closer this time. Somebody is shaking her. "Meredith?" repeats the voice once more, this time, thunder, and she snaps herself far enough out of the badness that she can speak.

"I'm sorry!" she croaks.

Richard shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. Just take deep breaths. Deep breaths. Like me." He demonstrates.

The panic recedes like a slow tide as she matches him breath for breath. In and out. In and out. In and out. She rests, slack, in Richard's arms.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks when she's found sentience again.

"Derek's taking the bus today," she says, swallowing. "He's taking the bus by himself to go to a meeting at the rehab center. He's never gone anywhere by himself since the accident except for one taxi trip, and I'm freaking out."

"Why are you freaking out?" Richard says in a soft, soothing voice, though the words freaking and out sound foreign and weird on his mature, more cultured tongue.

She swallows against the lump in her throat. It's giant, like a soccer ball, and everything hurts. "It's stupid," she says. "It's stupid. I know it's stupid. I **hate** my crazy. But I'm so scared he's going to die hurt and alone somewhere. I'm really scared."

Richard is silent for a long time as he rubs her back. "It's not stupid," he assures her. "You love him, and a lot has happened the past few years."

She snorts derisively. "You mean Fate made him its punching bag?"

"Something like that, yes," Richard says with a humoring smile. His embrace is a warm one, and he smells like … some cologne she doesn't recognize. She sighs, allowing herself to appreciate the comfort he gives.

"Do you happen to have a very long surgery that you don't want to do?" she says. "Like … epoch long?"

"No," he says, "but I have one you can join me on, if you'd like."

"How long will it take?" she says. She doesn't care what it is. She just wants something to suck up this day like a vacuum cleaner.

"Oh, I'd say five or six hours," he replies.

Five or six hours will almost get her to the meeting start time. She'll have minimal time left to stew. "Thanks," she says, breathing a sigh of relief. "You're a lifesaver."

* * *

Derek's parent thing meets at 2 p.m. He calls her at 1, though, only moments after she's toweled off her hands after surgery. Richard's still scrubbing so hard his body sways. When she yanks her phone out of her pocket, she sees she has five messages from Derek, too, left on her voicemail over the course of the past two hours. Crap. Crap, she missed that. How did she miss that? She left her phone on during that surgery **specifically** so, if he needed to call her for help, he could. She bites her lip and hits the green connect button.

"Hi," she says without preamble. Her heart pounds. "Are you okay? Are you lost? Do you need help? I'm so sorry I didn't answer the phone! I think my ringer must be screwed up."

A long pause follows, and she winces at the bombardment of questions she's given him. "Hello," he says after taking a moment to decipher her insanity. "I'm … okay," he says. A pause. "I … I miss the rest. Can you say more slow?"

She sighs with relief, leaning against the wall. "I basically asked you the same question three different ways because I'm crazy," she says. "Don't worry about it."

A long pause. "… Okay." She can feel him smile. "You are not crazy, Meredith. I understand why you worry."

"Thank you," she says. "So, what's up?"

"I called to tell you I'm here. The center."

Her jaw falls open. "You took the bus already? You made it?"

"Yes, I left message before I left house. I maked it," he says in a soft voice. "The pictures helped many." A pause. "M-much." Another pause. "Lot. A lot. The pictures helped a lot."

"That's great!" she says. She slides down to the floor in the scrub room, landing in a relaxed, relieved, boneless heap by the door. Richard gives her a grin as he dries off his hands and leaves. "Derek, that's so great! I'm so glad for you! I'm so glad you were able to do that. I knew you'd get it."

"Thank you," he says, tone warm. A pause. "When do you finish work?"

"I don't have anything scheduled for this afternoon," she says. "Probably right around the usual time."

He thinks for a moment. "Will you pick up … me?"

She blinks. "You don't want to ride the bus back?"

"I want to see you more," he says.

She laughs. "Well, okay then. I'll swing by on the way home, okay?"

"Yes," he says. "I see you then."

* * *

" _Hello_ ," he says in his first message. " _Stewart will take me to_ _the_ _bus stop, now. I_ _'m_ _call to tell you I'm leave. Leaving. I'm okay."_

" _Hello_ ," he says in his second message. " _I'm at the_ _one_ _bus stop. I'm okay._ "

" _Hello_ ," he says in his third message. " _I'm on the_ _one_ _bus. I'm okay._ _How is work? Are you surgery?_ "

" _Hello,_ " he says in his fourth message. " _I'm at the middle bus stop. I'm okay."_ And then he adds with a smile and a teaspoon of snark in his tone, _"_ _Please, don't be scare and drop liver._ "

" _Hello,_ " he says in his fifth message. " _I maked the connection. I'm on the_ _two_ _bus. I'm okay._ _Have you been to_ _Bot … Bottle? Bothell Way? It's pretty. There is a lake._ "

She can't help but laugh, listening to him play Marco Polo with her, all for the sake of her ridiculous phobias. God, she loves him. So freaking much. Her knight in shining whatever.

* * *

He's clutching the thick instruction packet, grinning ear to ear when she picks him up after sunset, and his happiness is infectious. The air is cold and thick with drizzle, and with the added darkness, she shouldn't want anything to do with a smile, but she can't help but smile back at him, anyway. She feels like she won the lottery or something, and her day wasn't even that exciting. If he could market his smiles, they'd be swimming in money again.

He sets the instructions in the backseat and leans across the parking brake to kiss her before he buckles his seatbelt. "Hello," he says in that soft, affectionate tone of his that makes her insides tighten. His eyes glisten in the dark.

"Hi," Meredith says, grinning back at him so hard her face hurts. "So, how was the meeting?"

"Good," he says. "We sat in wood polish." He pauses, a jarred expression on his face. "Chair," he says, correcting himself. "In a round circle. We talked for two time clock." Another jarred look. He shakes his head. "Hours. Two hours."

"Was it helpful?" Meredith says, frowning at his verbal slips. Weird. Even for him. "Did you get what you wanted out of it?"

"Yes, I listened," Derek says, discordance disappearing behind a nuclear grin. "Yes, I like." He takes a deep breath. "A girl … girl. Woman called … word name … face … Lisa. Lisa say. Lisa sayed said talked …."

He stops to think as Meredith turns the ignition and pulls away from the curb. Even with the pauses, he's talking about three times as fast as he usually does, which is a bit faster than she does when she's talking normally, and his speech is a staccato march with no obvious sentence structure. The windshield wipers swipe at the accumulating wetness, but all they end up doing is smearing the drizzle into blurry streaks and making it harder to see, so Meredith flicks the wipers off for now.

"She … she … she …," he continues. More thinking. Meredith frowns. "She say tell talked about her … child. Baby. Girl kid play toy little. Hmm." A sound gets stuck in his throat. He was perfectly coherent before on the phone, and now he's stumbling over **everything** , and chomping through wrong word associations like they're bits of popcorn. "D … D … Daughter," he spits.

"I remember," he says, barreling onward. "Not remember. Have no remember. F-f-f-forget her daughter word. Name. And … and … man boy grownup person … m-man … brown tall. Face hair. Face adult Estevan … tell with. Around over …." Derek frowns, thinking. The faster he tries to talk, the more he seems to stumble over words. "About. Estevan tell about."

Hell, he's babbling, she realizes. That's what he's doing. He's freaking babbling, he's so excited, and all the crap he normally corrects and connects in his head before he says it is dribbling out of his mouth, unchecked. At least, that's what she thinks she's hearing. She reassembles what he's said with pauses replacing the incoherent babble. _A … woman name … Lisa … talked … about her … daughter. I … forget her daughter … name. And … Estevan … tell … about._ Which sounds much more like Derek when he's his normal "somewhat tired." She grins. He's freaking **babbling**.

"He … he … Eh … Estevan. Estevan angry annoy complain frustrate. He frustrate." _Estevan … frustrate._

"About what?" she says, fighting to keep her jaw from dropping in amazement. What a revelation, hearing this. No wonder he hates talking. No **wonder** it's work. She takes the onramp onto the highway.

Derek swallows and plunges onward. "His … his … his … his .…" He sighs, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to think. And think. "His boy. Child young son … return. N-not return. Leave stay gone time time … late not tell bus. Go. Wheel. Van. C-c-c-car …." Derek winces. "C … c-car." He sighs, pulling his fingers through his hair. "I can't say this more good. Well." He makes an irritated, gasp-y-sounding sigh. "Better." He shakes his head. His face is one of disgust. "I … I'm regret. Unhappy. Apology." A growl of frustration. "Sorry. S-sorry." _His … son … late not tell … car. I can't say this … better. I'm … sorry._

"That's okay," Meredith says.

Holy crap. Holy **crap**. He churns through so many loosely-related words to get the ones he wants, it's insane. She had no idea. **None**. No wonder he pauses a lot. No wonder he confuses crap like ask and question and remember and memory, and why he has trouble with conjugations. That just adds more for him to churn through in his frantic word search.

He takes another deep breath. And another. Like he's trying to calm himself down.

She smiles at him. "I think I got the gist, anyway. I'm so glad you enjoyed it that much!" He takes several more cleansing breaths. She reaches across the parking brake and puts a hand on his thigh. "Really, I'm so glad."

More deep breaths. He's silent for a long time. After a few minutes, he gives her a sheepish look. "This … why I can't talk fast," he says, words slow, effortful, and absent any fluent connection between each individual word, though she can't call most of the gaps between words real pauses. The whole sentence sounds like work – his late-in-the-day normal.

"That's what you're thinking?" she says. "All the time? When we're talking?"

"Yes, if I can remember words," he says in his usual disconnected way. "Sometime, I'm stuck, not spin. I think … blank when stuck. It's **so** hard. I think **so** hard to talk."

"I …," she says. She squeezes his thigh. She's suddenly appreciating much more all the times he manages to inject real tone, or any kind of smooth word flow. Those moments were bigger triumphs for him than she realized, and his almost-fluency in the mornings seems all the more miraculous. "Derek, I'm …. I mean, I knew, in general concept, what the problem was, but …."

He stares out the window. "What?" he says.

She shakes her head. "You just became a lot more amazing to me. That's all. And I'm really, **really** glad that you enjoyed yourself today."

He grins. "Yes, I did." She feels warm skin against the back of her hand, the one she's rested on his thigh. He squeezes her hand. When she glances at him, she sees him looking back at her, gaze searching. "Are … you okay? You were not too much scare?"

"I'm okay," she says. "I was terrified earlier, but … I'm okay."

"You didn't … drop a liver?"

She snorts. "No. No, I was fine. Thank you for the phone calls. Thank you for humoring my crazy."

"Yes," he says. His aphasia version of _you're welcome_ , she thinks.

Derek looks like he's working on figuring out his next sentence, so she doesn't say anything else. A sea of red rear lights spreads in front of her. She darts around a blue MINI Cooper and settles back into the right lane at her preferred slightly-speeding pace. The smell of exhaust pumps into the Jeep's cabin through the heater. She wrinkles her nose and thinks mean thoughts at the semi she's tailgating.

"I don't want our kids to grow," Derek says.

Meredith snorts. "Why?"

"Sixteen sound horrible."

She laughs. And laughs. And laughs. "Yeah, we're probably going to have some drama. I have no experience with boys, but girls …." She shakes her head. "Awful. I know because I was one. Teen girls are criers, you know."

He swallows. "I hate when you cry."

She pats him on the shoulder. "Get used to it. Drama brings tears. And possibly pink hair. And rebellion."

"I wish I can remember … be … kid. Being kid. Me as kid. For Bailey."

She smiles. "I guess we'll just have to learn together as we go."

"Yes," he says, and he drifts into silence.

She gives up playing nice with the semi and risks jamming the accelerator to pass it. The Jeep kicks forward, and the engine protests. She slides back into the right lane in moments. The semi's headlights illuminate the car cabin, and she gets a good look at Derek staring out the window with a strange expression on his face. Happy-wistful?

"What are you thinking, now?" she says.

He turns to her, and his grin widens again. "I'm glad I will see this."

"See what?" she says.

"Zo's drama." He thinks for a moment. A long moment. He swallows. "I'm glad I will see her grow. And Bailey." He puts his hand on her thigh. "You say you will … pay … box for … me."

It takes her a moment to figure what he's trying to tell her. "I would," she says, when his meaning clicks. "It's sentimental to me, and I'd hate to part with it, but I'd rather have you than that trailer."

His grip closes around the hand she's resting on his leg. "If talk … pay for see kids grow …," he says, "at least it pay for good thing."

A lump forms in her throat. She squeezes his hand in return. They drive in comfortable silence for a few minutes. He doesn't move his hand.

"Will you go to the next parent meeting?" she says.

"Yes, I think," he replies. "I will try bus both way next time."

"Were you too tired to go both ways today?" she says.

He gives her an easy smile that looks gorgeous on him. "No, Meredith," he says. "I said I want to see you."

"I know, but I figured you might have an ulterior motive for skipping the return trip."

"Ulterior?" he says.

She guides her Jeep in and out of lanes. She glances at her watch. Plenty of time to pick up Zola, still. "Ulterior means … hidden."

"I didn't … … hide, Meredith," Derek says in a soft, rumbly tone that tightens her insides. "I'm happy. I wanted to see you."

"Oh," she says. "Really?"

He lifts his right thumb to stroke the side of her pinky. "Yes," he says. "I know you are … scare. Scared. I wish to give you my good day."

She blinks away a blur and raises her hand to swipe at her eyes. Even with the obstacle of aphasia, he still says the most heart-wrenching, beautiful things. "Thanks," she says.

He gives her his smile. The one that makes all her innards squeeze together. The one that makes her heart beat faster.

Derek Shepherd. Still a hopeless romantic. She's glad he's kept that, too.

* * *

"Yay, we win!" Bailey announces on Thursday night, bouncing in Derek's lap. "We win, Dada!"

"You sure did!" Meredith says. She looks Bailey in his bright blue eyes and smiles, though her message isn't for her son. "You're really good at this!"

Derek's grin is well past nuclear and somewhere in supernova territory. Stewart popped by earlier that evening with Sarah, a board game, and both kids in tow, and they made an evening of it. The girls are all playing in Zola's room. Bailey sits in Derek's lap, watching the spectacle. The game, Ticket to Ride, is way out of Bailey's age range, but Derek's been letting Bailey put the train pieces down on the board for him, so Bailey feels like he's playing, even if he's not the brains behind the choices.

The game is perfect for Derek. It's strategic, but the turns aren't timed, so he can take as long as he needs to think without falling behind. The main mechanism for establishing what one wants to do on a turn is color matching, not reading, and what little reading has to be done doesn't require comprehension of the word itself, just the ability to match the words on the route cards to the city names on the board's map, which Derek is more than capable of doing. There's no required talking, either. No fast or reflexive wordplay.

"Wow," Stewart says as he stands, leans across the table, and offers a hand to Derek. The game took about three rounds of Derek coming miles behind in dead last for him to get the hang of it, but after that, the competition evened out. This is the first time Derek's won, though. Stewart and Derek shake. "Good game, man," Stewart adds with a grin.

Meredith sips her wine. This is fun. She didn't think she was a board game person, but before tonight, her definition of a board game was Monopoly. She didn't know there was a whole host of board games – Stewart calls them Eurogames – that aren't for little kids and don't involve stupid amounts of luck to win.

"Another round?" she says, surprised how excited she is to go again.

"Yes, but I need a pit stop and a fresh beer," Stewart says, and he steps away from the table to take care of his list items.

Sarah grins, stands, and stretches. "Let me check on the girls, while we're waiting," she says as she shuffles out of the room.

"I will reset," Derek says. He looks like he might shoot into orbit or something as he gathers up all the game pieces and cards. He starts sorting with Bailey, oblivious to her scrutiny.

Meredith can't stop grinning. She thinks this is the first time Derek's ever matched wits with people his own age without an overwhelming feeling that he's lacking something in the intellect department. She wishes they'd done this sooner. Found some non-wordy way for him to shine. She rests her chin on her hands. Just like with his first perfect pancake flip, watching him bask in the flood of self-assurance that comes with winning warms her heart.

Bailey babbles nonsensically, off in his own little world as he pushes some of the cards around on the table. The train pieces are tiny choking hazards, and Derek's been careful to keep Bailey away from them except for when he's putting the pieces on the board under heavy supervision.

"What?" Derek says, when he notices her watching.

She shrugs. "Nothing," she says. "Just admiring the view."

The way his crow's feet crease, the way his eyes twinkle, as his smile spreads to his whole freaking face, is infectious. "Oh," he says. He winks at her. "You're pretty, too."

* * *

Separating conjoined twins is a once-in-a-lifetime surgery. The fact that this is Meredith's second once-in-a-lifetime isn't lost on her. The fact that she knows both twins well enough to be friends in another life, now, and if she screws this up, and they die, she won't be able to compartmentalize worth crap, well, that isn't lost on her, either. In this case, twin number two, Kikuko, only has about a 30 percent chance at surviving this. Twin number one, Kinu, is a little better off at 55 percent.

The separation is risky. Some might call it suicidal. But both Kinu and Kikuko consented. They both **want** this. After living for twenty-six years stuck to each other, because they couldn't find good enough surgeons willing to give this complicated separation a shot, Meredith can't blame them for wanting to take a chance with these odds. Anything to get away from each other.

She takes a deep breath. This is a huge surgery, requiring fifteen surgeons over three shifts. She's the lead surgeon on the third shift – a far cry from her first once-in-a-lifetime, when she only assisted.

She watches the OR through the window from the scrub room as she washes her hands, rhythmic, slow. Both twins are still alive at the end of the second shift. If they die, now, it's all on her.

She wishes the butterflies having a writhing, Ibiza-sized rave in her innards would calm the hell down.

* * *

"Did you spill coffee on your scrub cap or something?" Dr. Peters asks, only to receive an elbow in the side from Callie. Dr. Peters grunts.

"No," Meredith says. "This isn't coffee. Are you going to hold that retractor correctly, or do I need to kick you out?"

Dr. Peters shakes his head so fast it's a wonder his brain doesn't fly out. "No, I can do it. I'm sorry. Thank you for allowing me to be here." He fixes his grip.

Meredith bites her lip as she stares at the progress that's been made by the first two teams. She's rehearsed this surgery in her head so many times, but now that she's here, seeing bowel like spaghetti, she's frozen, debating, unsure. Crap.

"Are you okay?" Callie says from the other side of the table.

"I'm thinking!" Meredith snaps.

Callie says nothing. The heart monitor bleeps in the tense silence. From the look on Callie's face, though, she gets it. She gets the crisis going on in Meredith's head. Meredith closes her eyes, trying to visualize her plan of attack.

" _You can do this,_ " Derek says, a figment whispering somewhere in her mind's eye.

She swallows. " _I think I was_ _an idiot_ _to try this._ "

" _No, you weren't,_ " he replies without hesitation. " _You're the best surgeon there is for this._ "

She looses a pained laugh. " _You're always so sure._ "

" _Well, that's why you brought me along, right?_ " he says. She imagines him massaging her shoulders. She can't help but smile. Her tension eases. He sidles to the table and stares down at the mess of viscera. " _Now, how do you want to do this?_ "

" _I don't know,_ " she says.

" _I think you do,_ " he replies. " _Anterior approach or lateral?"_

She thinks for a long moment, and he waits, ever patient, watching. _"Lateral,"_ she decides.

He nods and wraps his arms around her. He kisses her neck.

" _I'm still worried,"_ she confesses.

He smirks. " _J_ _ust think of all the dirty things we can do tonight_ _to celebrate your success_ _when you get home._ "

She snorts. " _Carrot on a stick?_ "

" _Well_ ," he says. " _There's definitely a stick_ _involved_ _._ "

She laughs as she opens her eyes. His image fades into the bright, sterile operating room, and more than a dozen pairs of unblinking eyes stare back at her from around the table. She rolls her shoulders and neck. She swallows.

"Sorry," she says. "Sorry, I'm good, now."

She lowers her scalpel to make her first cut. Lateral approach it is.

* * *

"That was incredible!" Dr. Peters says as they scrub out.

Meredith grins. "It was, wasn't it?" She glances through the window into the OR. Kinu and Kikuko are on separate stretchers, still out cold, but breathing. They'll be in the ICU for a while. But barring complications, Meredith just hit a fan-freaking-tastic, career-defining, clout-generating home run.

"Yes," Dr. Peters says. "Yes, so much. Thank you for letting me scrub in."

She shrugs. "You're here to learn." She unties her scrub cap and slips it off. She stares at it for a moment, thumb stroking the soft, well-worn material. "It's furniture polish."

"What?" Dr. Peters says, looking up from the sink.

"On my scrub cap. It's not coffee. It's furniture polish."

Dr. Peters frowns. "Okay …."

"I needed some extra luck," she says. Dr. Peters' frown deepens with bafflement, but she's too happy to care. Weightless, she leaves him behind in the scrub room to ponder.

* * *

"I said don't chase!" Derek snaps, catching Bailey by the back of his shirt as he chases after Felix. Felix dashes for safety behind the sofa. Bailey loses his balance and plops onto his butt.

"But how I pet?" Bailey demands.

Derek sits cross-legged beside his son on the plush carpet. "Wait," Derek says, and he holds out his hand. He rubs his fingers against his thumb, sort of like the precursor for a snap, but he doesn't take it that far. The only sound that emanates from his hand is the rustle of skin on skin.

"Dada, what we wait for?"

"Shh," Derek says.

Felix pokes his tiny head around the corner of the sofa and mews. Derek grins and rubs his fingers together again. The kitten arcs his back and struts, rubbing against the corner of the couch. He takes a circuitous route, but he ends up near Derek's knee. He mews again.

Derek rubs the cat with the flat of his palm, head to tail. The kitten eats it up. "Like this," Derek instructs. He pets Felix again, and Felix arcs his little body into the touch. Bailey purses his lips and leans forward. When Derek removes his hand, Bailey imitates Derek's gesture, gentle strokes from head to tail. Felix eats the attention up like it's kibble. The purring that pours out of the little creature is thunderous.

"You let Felix come to you," Derek says. "You don't chase. Okay?"

"Okay," Bailey says, fixated on the cat, now.

Meredith grins, watching them over the top of her book. Derek's been re-emphasizing the "don't chase" thing all week. Every chance he gets. He's been getting better at asserting himself with the kids, though he still has a tendency toward avoidance. That little cat, though, is bringing out the disciplinarian in Derek like a flower coaxes a bee. Bailey will get the no-chasing rule, eventually. Just as surely as Derek, eventually, will get the part of parenting where he's supposed to be the boss.


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Notes**

Wow. I can't believe we're here. The final chapter before the epilogue. I just wanted to thank everybody so very much for coming along on this journey with me. Thanks so much for taking the time to leave me feedback. I'm super proud of this story. I never thought I'd top LST, but I think I've managed it with this. Thank you to my betas, my editor, all my twitter followers who offered inspiration when I got stuck, and everybody else who helped me get this story ready for posting. I hope people find this ending to be satisfying. I worked very hard on it. And I hope, hope, hope this story has been as cathartic for some of you as it's been for me. Let me know what you think :)

Since several people asked this, I wanted to put the answer up here:

1\. The accident could easily be argued as Derek's fault. The State of Washington has a hands free law, so Derek was basically driving while legally impaired. The truck driver that hit him would not likely be paying any of Derek's medical bills. In fact, it would probably be the other way around. Derek would be paying for the truck driver's injuries, if he sustained any.

2\. Derek never made $2 million a year. Never. When Richard said that infamous line, I believe he was referring to how much Derek's hands were insured for by the hospital, but even six years of inflation after Richard's line, neurosurgeons don't make half that much. The median salary for a neurosurgeon in the United States in 2015 is somewhere between 400-550k depending on what website you look at, and even the special few at the top cap out around a million.

* * *

 **Week twenty-eight.**

Derek's still asleep on Monday when Meredith's ready to walk out the door. He's leaving today. He's leaving with Stewart, who will be picking Derek up in a few hours. She wishes she could go to the train station with him and give him a proper goodbye, but her leave situation is too precarious to take the morning off. All she has is sick leave, and she already pulled a playing-hooky stunt this year. She doesn't want to risk it again.

She leans close and rubs his back. "Mmm," he mutters. He inhales in a sharp way that tells her she's woken him. He squints at her through his dark eyelashes with groggy eyes, but he says nothing else.

She grins. "I just wanted to say goodbye. I'll see you on Wednesday night, okay? Have a nice trip."

He doesn't respond, and she thinks he might be too sleepy-eyed to understand her. She kisses him. He might not understand words right now, but he understands kisses, and he reciprocates with no encouragement before sinking back into bed with a tired rumble. The covers rustle as he resettles.

She leaves for work in a cloak of misty, early-morning darkness.

* * *

"She seems okay," Maggie observes. She frowns and looks at Callie. "Does she seem okay?"

Callie nods. "Yes," she says. Her eyes narrow as she watches Meredith eat her scrambled eggs. "Why are you okay?"

Meredith swallows a slimy forkful of eggs. She likes eggs. She hates hospital eggs, though. The only other cafeteria options today, however, were even less edible than the gross, slimy, runny, not-even-yellow eggs. She kicks back her orange juice glass and takes a gulp.

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" Meredith says.

Maggie frowns. "I thought you didn't like Derek traveling."

Meredith shakes her head. "Alone. I don't like Derek traveling alone. He's not alone, so I'm not worried." Alex snorts. Meredith turns to him. "What?"

"Nothing," he says. "Nothing, it's just … if you'd told me six months ago Stewart Manning would be Derek's travel coach over Thanksgiving, I probably would have asked for a toke off your joint."

Meredith rolls her eyes and turns to Callie. "Speaking of Thanksgiving," she says, "you're still okay taking Felix for the weekend, right?"

Callie nods. "Yep. Not a problem."

"Thank you."

Meredith forces herself to finish off the rest of her eggs. They're gross, but she's scrubbing in soon and has no idea when her next chance to eat will be. The sweetness of her high-fructose-corn-syrup-infused orange juice overrides the yucky, eggy aftertaste in her mouth, at least.

When her cell phone chirps, she pulls it from her jacket pocket to peer at caller ID. She smiles and picks it up without hesitation. "Hi," she says into the receiver. The bustling cafeteria surrounding her melts away, and she's in a private bubble. "Have you left, yet?"

A long pause follows before she hears Derek's soft voice. "Yes. Yes, we left. The train moves. I'm call to tell you I'm on it. I'm okay."

Her grin stretches. "Thanks," she says. "I appreciate it. What do you think so far?"

Another long pause. "I like to see. The … m … moving … land?" His voice trails off into doubtful silence.

"The scenery?" she guesses.

"Yes," he says. She can hear his smile. "Yes, this is what I meaned. The scenery. I like to see it."

She leans back in her chair. The chair creaks as her weight shifts. She grins. She didn't consider that, before. That riding a train cross-country would be an exciting thing for him because there's still so much out there that's brand new to him.

"Take pictures of your favorite sights," she suggests. "You can show them to me when I see you."

A long, long pause this time while he parses her words. She loves that he doesn't put her on speaker when he chats with her on the phone. He's okay with her, both in being able to understand most of what she's saying, and in being comfortable enough to ask her for clarification when he doesn't.

"Yes," he says after a while. "Yes, I will show you pictures."

"How's Stewart?" Meredith says. "Keeping you entertained?"

Derek snorts. "He is asleep. He says this too early."

Meredith chuckles into the receiver. "Did he get you with the rule about using five words or less before coffee?"

A glacial pause. "I don't …." She hears the phone shift. "I don't understand your ask."

"Stewart's not a morning person," she clarifies, careful to go slow. "He told me once he can't understand more than five words at a time if he hasn't had his coffee."

The bluster of breath against the receiver after a long pause tells her he gets the joke. "This is not a problem for me," Derek says with a smile in his tone. "I can't talk more five words, anyway."

She snorts. "So, we're definitely back to laugh, not cry?"

"Yes, Mere," Derek says, the words soft. "I'm try. Trying."

"I'm glad," Meredith says. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Me, too," he says. A pause. "Eight, I think."

"That's a great number to be at," she says, and she can hear him smile through the phone again. His smiles are big, audible, infectious things. She's not sure how or why, but they are, and she finds herself smiling with him. She glances at her watch. "Listen, I have to go. I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay," he replies. "I will take pictures for you."

When the phone disconnects, and her bubble pops, the bustle of the cafeteria floods back into her awareness. She stuffs her phone into her lab-coat pocket and grabs her orange juice. Maggie, Callie, and Alex all stare at her with raised eyebrows.

Meredith frowns. "What?"

"You guys are nauseating," Alex says with a snort.

Callie nods. "You're losing dark-and-twisty cred, Meredith."

Meredith's frown deepens. "But I didn't say anything gross," she says. "I didn't even use the word love."

Maggie laughs. "Mere, it's not what you **said**."

"Smile like that more, though," Callie adds, and then she flashes a wide grin. "It looks good on you."

* * *

"I'm … Chicago," Derek tells her late on Tuesday afternoon while she fills out charts. The excitement is gone from his tone, and there's a weight to his words she didn't hear yesterday.

She bites her lip. "How are you doing? Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," he says. "We wait … next train." A pause. "It … noisy," he confesses. "I'm tired. I'm … four."

He's gone from eight to four in the space of a day? All at once, she's glad Stewart's with him, and she realizes Dean was right. Not even in an erring-on-the-side-of-caution right, but setting up a cabana in the land of rightness. If Derek's not feeling well with Stewart picking up all the slack, she can't imagine how bad Derek would be right now if he were by himself, having to read signs and figure out where the hell to go without anyone to help him.

"Did you take some codeine?" she says.

A pause. "I will. I try wait until new train."

"Derek, if your head hurts, now, take it, now," she urges him. "Don't wait." Pause. "Stewart will get you where you need to go." Pause. "Don't worry about that." Pause. "Your goal is to make it there in one piece."

"Okay," he says. "Okay, I …." Another long pause. The phone shuffles. "I … find … water."

And, now, she jumps the canyon from concerned to genuine worry, because he sounds faint and slow and discombobulated by the mere act of looking for a drink to take his pills with. "Derek, can you hand the phone to Stewart?"

"… What?"

"Stewart," she repeats. "Hand the phone to Stewart."

Another shuffling noise blusters through the line, and for a moment, she thinks Derek's dropped the phone into his lap or something, but then she hears Stewart's bombastic, friendly, "Little Amazon, how are you?"

"I'm fine, Stewart," Meredith says. "Derek sounds wrong, though. Is he okay?"

"He's fine," Stewart assures her. "He didn't sleep well on the train. He's a little out of sorts, but I think he'll be fine as soon as he gets some real rest."

Meredith grips the phone so hard her knuckles hurt. "Stewart, sleep deprivation is a trigger for him." And a migraine is what they're trying to avoid by sending him on the train in the first place. "Can you maybe buy him some ibuprofen PM? Give him two of those in addition to his codeine. That might be enough to knock him out overnight."

"Roger that," Stewart says.

She swallows. "Stewart …."

"Yes?"

"Thank you so much," she says. "For doing this for him."

"It's nothing, really," he says in an _aw, shucks_ tone that tells her she's bumping into his mush limit. "I was going this direction, anyway."

"But your five-hour flight became a three-day train trip," she says.

"Yes, but I got to see North Dakota, so it was worth it," Stewart replies. "I can cross it off my list, now! You can probably cross it off yours, too." The phone jostles as Stewart shifts. "Derek took one picture of an empty field covered with snow. That's a pretty good summary of the place. Fields. Snow. Flat. Oh, and cows. I think cows are the state bird."

Meredith laughs. "I'm glad you've gotten to do some sightseeing."

"Anyway," Stewart says, "the next train leaves in less than forty minutes. I better go hunting for that ibuprofen. Okay?"

"Okay," she says. "I'll talk to you later."

* * *

Wednesday is a whirlwind. It's Bailey's first plane trip, and he's an excited, bubbling ball of energy. She doesn't get a chance to talk to Derek in the morning because her morning consists of rolling out of bed at the ass crack of dawn, racing out of the house with two bouncy children and two roller-board suitcases – one for her stuff, one for the kids' stuff – finding a place to park in one of the satellite lots at the airport, adding Bailey's carseat to her burden, suffering her way through a ridiculous, winding, switchback line at airport security, and somehow getting her family seated on the plane without issue. By the time she has her first chance to breathe since her alarm shrilled into the morning silence, she's hurtling through the air in a tiny tin can that could fall to the ground at any moment, trying hard not to freak out about the fact that she's hurtling through the air in a tiny tin can that could fall to the ground at any moment, and she can't make any calls.

She hopes Derek's okay. That he hasn't gotten a migraine overnight. She hopes that the ibuprofen trick averted disaster. She hopes her plane doesn't freaking crash. She hopes all the way to JFK.

* * *

When she steps into their hotel room with the kids, she's greeted by darkness. By silence.

Crap. Crap, he got a migraine, and he's hibernating, she thinks.

But as the kids squirm past her and spill into the small room, the bedside lamp flips on, and the room is lit with a soft glow. Derek's curled up on the left side of a king-size bed, and his spacey expression screams medicated headache, but … a normal headache. A medicated headache that sucks but, at least, it's a headache that still lets him function.

"Hello," he says, the word soft and slurred with sleep and painkillers as he sits up, squinting at them.

"Daddy!" Zola cries at the same moment Bailey utters, "Dada!"

The kids climb onto the bed to hug him, and he returns their affection. He kisses them both.

"I ride on pane!" Bailey announces.

"How … you … fly?" Derek replies, struggling, and Bailey seems to have no idea what Derek's asking him. Meredith's not quite sure, either. _How was your flight?_ Maybe.

Bailey grins anyway, and he babbles, "We go high, and every person and house is teeny! My ears pop. I don't wike. But rest is fun! We go froo cwouds! And pane is bouncy wike a rower cozer!"

Derek swallows, and he gives his children a lazy, drunk-y smile. If he's comprehended a word Bailey's said, he gives no indication, but he manages a generic, slur-y, "S'great," and a sedate nod. His eyes are glassy, his breathing is thick, and his right-side movements are sloppy.

She thinks Stewart may have convinced him to keep taking the ibuprofen PM to make sure Derek would get some sleep tonight, too. By itself, the ibuprofen PM is nothing, but combined with codeine, the sedative effects are magnified.

Meredith sits on the bed beside his hip and pulls her entire family into a hug. Her arms don't reach all the way around, but whatever. "All right, guys," she says, careful to keep her voice low. "Let's go get dinner, so Daddy can sleep, okay?"

"Pizza?" Zola says with hope in her eyes.

"But I want hot dog," Bailey says, frowning.

"You two just picked the two most ubiquitous foods in this entire city," Meredith says. She grins at them. "I'm sure we can get both."

Zola frowns. "What's youbicktus?"

Meredith snorts. "Ubiquitous means common."

"Oh," Zola says.

"Go wait by the door for me, okay?" Meredith says, and the kids climb off the bed, leaving her semi-alone with Derek for a moment. She pulls her fingers through Derek's hair. He's almost asleep in her arms. His eyes aren't even half open. "Derek, do you want anything? We can bring food back."

"See … cat?" Derek slurs against her ear as they embrace.

She frowns. "Cat?"

"Lobby," Derek says. "Matilda."

Exhaustion and sedatives have combined their superpowers to waste him, she thinks. She doubts he'll be awake enough to care about food before tomorrow, so she doesn't steal any more of his resting time. He needs as much rest as he can get, because tomorrow's going to be a zoo. She kisses him, and she leaves him to sleep.

She smiles as she closes the door behind her and corrals the kids down the hallway to the elevator. They made it. They freaking made it to New York without the plane crashing, and with her husband still in one piece. A sleepy, stoned piece, but that's good enough.

Derek will get to consciously see his family – the whole damned thing – in one place, for the first time since the car accident. Meredith thinks about all the firsts she's had with Derek in the past year-and-a-half. From the time he opened his eyes until now.

It's been a long trip.

* * *

Derek sleeps past noon on Thursday. Meredith does her best to keep the kids out of their hotel room and entertained while he sleeps. Carolyn knows to expect them later in the afternoon, so Derek has more time to recuperate from his trip. She's set dinnertime at six in deference to his needs.

He's less than chatty when he wakes up, but not from pain, now, Meredith thinks. Nerves. When they climb into the cab to head to his mother's house, she doesn't have a chance to ask him how he is, because Bailey and Zola are squirming and excited in the back seat of the cab, and she has to use all her energy to keep them somewhat well-behaved.

"Are you okay?" she has a chance to whisper in his ear as they traverse the front walk of Derek's childhood home. The air is cool and crisp, the sky is gray, and all the trees are dead and twiggy. The smell of chimney smoke fills the air.

He gives her a wavering smile. "I … hope I … keep up," he says. "I hope. I don't want disappoint."

"Derek, anyone who isn't gobsmacked by the simple fact that you're here doesn't have an opinion worth worrying about," she says.

Still, she can't help her own flutter of nerves. She's never done this. The Thanksgiving thing. Not with the Shepherd family, anyway. The only time she's endured his entire family all in one place before, he was awake, but not "home" yet, and she received massive doses of sympathy etiquette from everyone, even Nancy, as a result. Meredith's nervous for herself, now that she doesn't have the I'm-a-grieving-wife buffer to protect her. She's nervous for Derek, too. Nancy hasn't called since Meredith laid down the law a few months ago. Meredith has no idea what to expect from Nancy, now, in person. She hopes Nancy won't make this miserable for him. She hopes his zillions of nieces and nephews won't wear him out. She hopes this visit makes him happy. He deserves to be happy and to be with his family.

"Do you remember any of this?" Meredith asks, curiosity burning as she watches his visual appraisal of the tiny yard and the house beyond. The house is a tiny, narrow one, and she marvels over the fact that a family of seven used to live here without killing each other.

Derek looks back at her and stops walking a few strides from the first red-brick step. "I … I remember Mark. Mark and …." He shakes his head, like his memory is fragmented, and he's not sure who the other person is. He points to the yellowed, winter-deadened grass. "We play with … with …." Another head shake. "I don't know this word. It's … round. And … and blue?"

Meredith frowns. Round and blue …. That could be anything. "I'm not sure, either," she says.

"I throwed it," Derek says. "Throwed. Threw. I threw it, and Mark get … got wet."

"Water balloons!" Zola chirps.

Derek's eyebrows raise, and he looks down at his daughter. "Oh," Derek says. "Is this what they are?"

Zola bounces and nods. "Melody helped us make them once this summer when you were at re-have," she says, looking up at Derek. "You take a balloon, and fill it with water, and when you throw it at somebody, it **explodes** everywhere, and people get wet and laugh, and it's fun!"

"Boom!" Bailey adds as a helpful sound effect. He giggles.

"Water balloon," Derek repeats happily. "Thank you, Zo."

"Welcome, Daddy," Zola says. Her gaze shifts to Meredith. "Can we do that this weekend?"

"It's too cold to play with them, now," Meredith says. She gives Zola an apologetic frown. "Sorry, Zozo."

Zola doesn't seem too crushed, at least. A warm feeling overtakes Meredith. A floaty-ness she can't describe.

Derek cocks his head at her. "Are you okay?" he says.

Meredith nods. She looks at Derek. And Zola. And Bailey. She smiles. "I hope you guys all know how much I love you."

"I know, Mommy!" Zola says.

Bailey wraps his tiny arms around Meredith's leg. His grip tightens. "Wuv Mommy!" he says.

Derek watches the scene with a soft, affectionate look in his eyes, which the gray sky renders black. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something. "I …," he manages before he's interrupted.

"Hey, they're here!" Meredith hears a woman exclaim somewhere inside the shoebox-sized house, and Derek closes his mouth. He turns from Meredith to look up the steps at the door. A rumble of excitement builds inside.

Kathleen comes to the door, her button nose and delicate features all creased in a big expression of joy. She's wearing a festive red sweater and dark pants, and her curly black and silver hair is held away from her face by a horizontal clip. "You guys made it!" she says as she pushes open the storm door, waving them up the steps. A rumble of voices expands like a cloud from within.

Kathleen's jaw drops as she gets a better look at her brother. Steps are much harder for him than flat ground because they force him to put all his weight on his right leg, but he manages with only slight unevenness in his strides. "Derek, you look fantastic!" She points at his cane. "You almost look like you don't need that."

Derek grins at his sister. "I don't, now. I carry it for later."

For a moment Kathleen is speechless. Her eyes water. "Mom filled me in on how much better you are, but …." She can't finish her sentence.

"Yes, I … I … I …." Whatever Derek wants to say, it gets stuck. He looks up at the awning, thinking, but after a moment he shakes his head.

Kathy steps out into the cold and onto the porch with them. Her breaths mist and curl in the air. She wraps her arms around Derek and pulls him into a hug. "I'm **so** glad you're here," she tells him, splayed palm rubbing his back.

"Oh … yes," Derek manages as he returns the hug. "I … I want to come home." He shakes his head and corrects himself, "Want. Wanted." Kathleen smiles over Derek's shoulder at Meredith.

"It's nice to see you again, Kathy," Meredith says, not lying.

She's nervous as crap, but in the year Derek lived at rehab, she had sisters-in-law and mother-in-law all visiting through what felt like a revolving door. After that Shepherd family shindig visit when Derek first woke up, his family started visiting at their convenience. A weekend here. A weekend there. They've given her a respite since she brought Derek home, but she expects the revolving door to pick up again after the holidays. As a result of all the visits, Meredith's gotten to know them all. Like them all. Well, other than Nancy.

Nancy's **never** gotten along with Meredith – Meredith's the backstabbing, slutty home-wrecker who took Derek from Addison – but Nancy used to be fine with Derek. The one time she visited Derek alone after his accident, when he couldn't say more than ten monosyllabic words to her, she was still normal around him. Concerned and caring and gentle and everything Meredith thought a sister in a not-dysfunctional family probably would be. But then a switch got flipped, and Nancy's seemed … stuck in denial since then. Sort of like a mantra has taken over her higher brain functions: _Derek's not hurt. He's not hurt. He's not!_ She's so impatient with him, always expecting him to respond as fast as he used to be able to respond, to understand everything she's saying on the first try and without effort, and she makes no attempt to speak in ways more compatible with how Derek hears things, now. She behaves so differently than her sisters that Meredith has no freaking idea where Nancy's rejection of reality originated from or why.

Kathy shifts out of her hug with Derek into one with Meredith. "It's so great to see you, too!" Kathy adds. "Mom came home on cloud nine. She couldn't stop babbling about how you'd accepted her invitation." Meredith sinks into the woman's arms. She's grown to love hugs over the years, thanks to Derek's octopus-y need for tactile interaction.

Bailey holds his hands up as Meredith and Kathleen part. "Aunt Katty, pickup?"

Kathleen smiles and scoops him into her arms. "You're getting **so** big," she says, groaning as she straightens. She looks at Zola. "So are you, sweetheart. Do you like kindergarten so far?"

The five of them push into the house. Warmth and the smell of roasting turkey envelopes them.

* * *

"I'm so sorry I didn't bring a pie," Meredith confesses, following as Lizzie trots everyone's bulky coats to one of the bedrooms. They plod up the steps, and the old hardwood flooring under the runner creaks. "I couldn't manage it." Juggling the kids on a scary airplane by herself was plenty to keep her busy, and she didn't want to burden Derek with extra stuff to worry about on his train trip.

Lizzie shakes her head. "Don't worry about it. You came, and you brought Derek and my newest niece and nephew. As far as I'm concerned, you brought all the important things."

Meredith smiles. "Thanks."

Lizzie puts a hand on Meredith's shoulder and squeezes. "I'm not sure how much it'll stick, but I sat all the kids down, **all** of them, and told them to try not to bombard Derek with too many things at once. I told them about pause, too. They all know what it's for if he says it."

"Okay," Meredith says.

* * *

When Meredith and Lizzie come back downstairs, Meredith finds Derek in the same place she and Kathy left him to put away coats and kids, respectively. He stands in the tiny foyer on the welcome mat, alone, hovering, an uncertain look on his face as he peeks through the doorway to the right, which leads into the cramped living room. Most of the adults mill there, sitting wherever they can find a place to plant themselves, chatting over wine. Nobody is talking loud as in shouting, but when one jams so many people into such a small space, the volume rises like a tide as people struggle to be heard.

Lizzie seems to get that Derek might need a little coaxing from a more familiar face, so she squeezes Meredith's shoulder and says, "I need to help Mom in the kitchen." She heads down the hallway and disappears through one of the doors toward the back of the house.

"Hey," Meredith says to Derek as she approaches. "Doing okay so far?"

He gives her a tiny clipped nod. "I … I …," he begins in a choked whisper.

"Everybody here loves you," she reminds him. "Everybody." Even Nancy, though she has a crappy way of showing it.

"I know, but …." His words trail away.

She hugs him. "Do you remember anything about this house?" she says, trying to distract him a little.

But he shakes his head. "Nothing of this hall," he says. "Maybe, other places. I … I tell you if I think of one."

"Okay," Meredith says.

He stares at the crowd in the living room a bit like one would size up entering a bear's den or something. Carolyn and Lizzie aren't here. From what Meredith gathers, they're in the kitchen prepping all the food. Kathy's gone, too. She seems to be the appointed kid supervisor for the moment. Amelia and Owen, Nancy and Rob, Kathy's husband John, Lizzie's husband Jaleel, Abby and Chloe, Derek's oldest nieces, and Sean, Derek's oldest nephew, all sit within, chatting. Meredith thinks it's probably the Nancy and Rob part that has Derek balking.

There are two open folding chairs crammed in the corner next to Amelia and Owen, the two least threatening people in the room because Derek knows them the best. Meredith squeezes Derek's hand and says, "You want to sit?"

"Okay," he says, the word hesitant and quiet.

Except conversation stops as they step into the room, and everybody looks at them as they walk across the rug. "Hi, everybody," Meredith says to fill the sudden quiet. A chorus of friendly hellos greets her in return, and the chatter resumes, pulling her and Derek out of the spotlight, at least, for now.

"Meredith, Derek," Owen says, smiling. His face is ruddy with the blush of alcohol, and he seems … happy. Genuinely happy. "My first Shepherd Thanksgiving!" he says, excitement bleeding from his tone. "I've been hearing about these for a while, now." He leans close as Meredith and Derek sit down. "I hope I don't screw this up," he says behind his cupped hand.

"We should have a codeword to signify when a rescue is needed," Amelia decides. "Something that says, 'Help! Black sheep in danger!'"

Meredith snorts.

"Black sheep?" Derek says.

"The family disgrace," Amelia replies.

Derek frowns. "I'm … black sheep?"

Amelia shakes her head. "No, no, not you. I'm the black sheep. Owen is, by extension, also a black sheep. Meredith's a … grayish sheep. She's risen in esteem over the years. You're just a plain sheep," Amelia says, looking at Derek. "But you can borrow our codeword if you need someone to rescue you."

"I …." Derek blinks. "I … don't …." He sighs. "I'm sorry; I don't understand."

Amelia's gaze softens. "You're not a black sheep, Derek," she says, paring down for him.

"Not … disgrace?"

"Nope," Amelia says. "You're bullet-proof. I promise."

"But I was shot," he says.

Amelia looks at Derek with an odd expression, like, for a moment, she forgot Derek's different, now. She swallows like she's got a lump in her throat. "It's a figure of speech, sorry," she says. "I meant you're safe from ridicule."

"Oh," Derek says. "Okay."

"So, what do we think?" Amelia says. "What's our codeword?"

Meredith shakes her head. "Help doesn't work well enough?"

"How about code blue?" Owen chimes in.

"That's two words," says Meredith. "Maybe, just blue?"

Amelia nods. "Good. Good, that's good. Everybody got it?"

Everybody nods, which is when Nancy leaves her perch next to Rob on the arm of the well-worn love seat. She bends to kiss Rob and then approaches the black sheep corner of the room. She glances at everybody, an oddly hesitant look on her face. She folds her arms over her chest like she needs a shield. "Can I … talk to you in private?" Nancy says, looking at Derek. She spares a glance for Meredith, too. "You, too? Please?"

Meredith narrows her eyes.

"O … o … o … okay," Derek says, face reddening.

Meredith grits her teeth. God, she hates Nancy. How she has Derek all twisted up in so many knots from all her dismissive phone calls that he can't even tell her a simple affirmative without struggling. Without being embarrassed.

"In the dining room," Nancy suggests. "Just for a minute."

* * *

Meredith tries to beam her thoughts at Nancy as they sit down at a long oak table covered in a frilly lace tablecloth. _If you upset him, so help me, I'll gut you._ But Nancy pointedly isn't making any eye contact, and Meredith's not sure whether her silent threat has been received.

The table is already set with beautiful, shiny china and silver utensils. The teal-colored napkins are real cloth – linen, she thinks – not paper masquerading as cloth. Meredith has china like this stuffed in the china closet at home. She didn't see the need to buy it, but Derek insisted, just in case they hosted a dinner party or something. They picked it out together at Macy's. Their resultant choice is nice, but doesn't have an antique feel like Carolyn's. Meredith touches the gold rim of one of the spotless plates and swallows.

She scoots her chair as close to Derek's as it will go, so close the wooden arms bump and scrape together. She's trying to show Nancy there's solidarity here. That she can't steamroll her brother without steamrolling Meredith, too, and, while Derek took a meek pill on impact, Meredith is anything **but** meek. Not when one of her people is in trouble, and Derek is one of her people. Meredith has claws, and she'll use them if she has to.

"How was your trip?" Nancy begins in a soft voice.

Derek looks at his hands. "I … I …." He swallows. "Stewart …." And then he trails off into silence, face reddening like a blister or something because he can't seem to get his mouth to cooperate with him.

"You rode the train, right?" Nancy says in a gentle tone. "Was that nice?"

Derek hazards a wobbly smile. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I see …. I see … so much … new."

"What was your favorite thing?" Nancy says.

Derek licks his lips. "I have … I have … I have pictures. Will you … like to … see?"

"I'd love to," Nancy says, and Derek reaches into his pocket for his iPhone. He swipes it unlocked and opens the picture gallery. Then he hands her his phone. Nancy takes a moment to admire every picture – a long moment – like she's trying to demonstrate she cares.

Meredith doesn't know what to make of this. This is the Nancy she remembers from the first visit. The patient-with-Derek Nancy who visited Derek last year over Christmas. The _Jaws_ theme plays in Meredith's head, and she clutches the chair railings with a white-knuckled grip, but she doesn't dare intrude on this brother-sister moment when things, for now, are going well.

Nancy points to the phone. "What is this one?"

"It's … it's …." Derek stops to think for a long moment. His mouth works trying to form the words he wants to spit out. He's red, and shaky, and nervous, and the shame in his tone when he admits, "I can't say this," makes Meredith hurt inside.

"North Dakota, right?" Meredith interjects to help him out. "The snow?"

Derek nods. Something gets caught in his throat, and he doesn't speak, not even to say yes. He's not like this with people anymore, not with friends and family. Not with people whom he knows and loves. Nancy did this with all her intolerant phone calls. Nancy is, in his mind, just like a stranger.

"That's okay," Nancy says, and Meredith doesn't miss what looks like sadness in her smile. "Thank you for showing me." She turns to Meredith. "Was your flight okay?"

"Um … yes?" Meredith says. Not to be mean or sarcastic or anything. She's just … so freaking confused. "Bailey really liked the turbulence." Bailey bounced in his seat, giggling like a hyena every time the plane jerked and rolled, fighting the air currents. Meanwhile, she sat in her seat, silent, stiff like an iron rod, clutching the seat railings, heart thundering in her ears. Since the plane crash, she's learned to force herself onto planes out of necessity, but she has yet to figure out how to get rid of the almost-panic she feels in her chest like a squeezing fist for the entire trip. Alprazolam helps a lot, but she can't take that when she's single-momming cross-country. "I, however, was happy when it stopped."

Nancy gives her a ghost of a smile, and a nod. "Listen, I just …." She glances at Derek. "Derek, I want to apologize to you."

"Apologize?" Meredith says.

"I was awful to you," Nancy says, fixated on Derek. "I was **so** awful. I'm sorry."

Derek blinks like he's stunned. Meredith gapes.

"Rob, um …." Nancy says. She looks at the ceiling. Her eyes water. "Rob's been … sick. Really sick."

"Sick?" Meredith says. "Is he okay, now?"

Nancy nods, though she keeps looking at Derek, and is clearly expecting a response from Derek. Not Meredith. "He's better," she says.

"What was wrong with him?" Meredith says. "Can I help?" And then she hunkers in her seat. "Sorry. Sorry, I don't mean to pry."

"I didn't intend for this to be a pity session," Nancy says, glancing at Meredith as she shakes her head, and Meredith understands a clear back-the-hell-off message when she sees one. She resigns herself to living in mystery. Nancy wipes her eyes and clears her throat, pushing onward. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. After our last phone call, Rob pointed it out to me that I've been … really inconsiderate with you since he got sick, and I …." Her lower lip quivers as she stares at her brother. Meredith resists the urge to snort. Rob may have pointed it out. **After** Meredith pointed it out. Nancy seems to be ignoring that part, though. "I thought about it," Nancy says. "I thought about it for a long time, and he's right." Meredith won't comment. She won't comment. She won't comment. She counts to ten in her head. If Nancy wants to give Rob the credit for this epiphany … whatever. As long as the end result is Nancy being better to her brother. Nancy continues, oblivious to Meredith's stewing, "I didn't mean to be so demanding with you. I know you're doing the best you can, and I'm sorry I didn't let that be good enough. I love you. I don't want you to be nervous around me. I **never** wanted that. I'm sorry."

Derek squeezes his eyes shut. "I … I … I … don't … understand."

Nancy slides out of her chair, steps around to Derek's side of the table, and kneels on the plush rug covering the floor so she's eye-level with him. Nancy's been the sister who's interacted with Derek the least, and she's never gotten the hang of how to talk to him. She's never **tried** to get the hang of how to talk to him. She looks at Meredith with a demanding _help-me_ expression.

"She was upset about Rob," Meredith says, whittling down Nancy's words to the meat of what Nancy was trying to say. "She's sorry she took it out on you."

Derek nods.

Nancy puts her hands on Derek's shoulders. "I love you, okay? Please, don't be nervous around me. I'll try to be better."

Derek is speechless at this point, though. His mouth works, but he says nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a tangled clot of syllables to demonstrate he's trying, though he is. Frustration leaks from his pores, until he gives up. He swallows, he gives up, and he looks at his knees.

Nancy blinks tears. "It's okay," she says. "Don't worry about it. I know it's my fault." She gives his shoulder one last squeeze and steps away.

Derek needs some time to collect himself, anyway, so Meredith chases after Nancy. Meredith catches up with her in the hallway outside the dining room. When Nancy turns to Meredith, she sees Nancy's descended from a few stray tears to abject weeping, and Meredith is stunned. Just … stunned.

She has no freaking idea what to do. The murmur of voices fills the house. The air is warm and homey and full of cooking smells that make her stomach rumble. Everything is so incongruous with Nancy sobbing in the hallway. Meredith swallows, and then she does what she learned from Derek. She hugs, and Nancy – prickly, bitchy, mean-to-Meredith Nancy – clings.

"When Dad died, Derek was all I had. Anytime I had a problem, he'd help. When Rob got sick, all I wanted to do was talk to Derek, but Derek's gone – he's **gone** – and he's never coming back," Nancy babbles between sucking, gasping breaths.

"Derek's not gone," Meredith says in a soft voice. "He's not, Nancy. If you spend a little time with him-"

"But **look** at him," Nancy snaps. "He's terrified of me."

"That won't stick forever if you mean what you said, and you spend a little time with him," Meredith says.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Nancy demands. "I was never nice to you."

Meredith shrugs. "Derek wanted me to have this. A family I can love and rely on. I'm … trying. I've **been** trying." Ever since Lizzie visited to donate nerves to Derek, she's been trying. A little here. A little there. Tiny doses. Derek's accident accelerated the whole process. And the simple fact of the matter is she's not ever going to win them all over if she doesn't use honey. "I know I'm all gray sheep-y, but I'm trying not to be."

"Gray … sheep-y?" Nancy repeats.

Meredith sighs. "Well, I'd rather not call myself a slutty home-wrecker."

Nancy is silent for a long, long time in response to that. Meredith's not sure what the hell to make of any of this, so she goes with what she knows. The hugging thing. When Nancy sniffs and pulls back from the embrace, she swallows, she wipes her eyes, and she utters, "Thanks," in a gruff tone that says she'd rather be hugged by a skunk with spiked armor.

"No problem," Meredith says, the words flat.

And Nancy retreats.

* * *

Derek and Meredith get immunity this year. Carolyn insists it's because she's so happy they came, but Meredith suspects Carolyn knows Derek won't make a qualified referee and doesn't want to make him feel bad about it. He's gotten better at disciplining Zola and Bailey, but handling thirteen kids is too much for him. Flat out too much. They're noisy – all of them – and the littler ones shriek and giggle at pitches that, to Derek, feel like swords jammed into his ears. Kathy and John get immunity because they got stuck at the kids' table last year. Amelia and Owen, Lizzie and Jaleel, Nancy and Rob, and Abby, Chloe and Sean in a team of three, as a result, are the ones who get to draw the straws.

When Lizzie pulls the short straw from the bunch Carolyn holds out to them, Lizzie sighs. "Figures," she says.

"Now, now," Carolyn says with a disapproving cluck, "you know the rules, dear."

"I know, I know," Lizzie says. She waves at her husband. "Jay, c'mon." And she and Jaleel go to sit at the kids' table in the other room. Table is a bit of a misnomer, Meredith thinks, since it's tables. Plural. Several folding tables form a long, uneven line in the family room, which is adjacent to the kitchen in the opposite direction of the dining room.

This leaves Carolyn, Meredith, Derek, Kathy, John, Amelia, Owen, Nancy, Rob, Abby, Chloe, and Sean at the grownups' table. Meredith spends a wide-eyed moment watching everybody sit down and get settled. Derek has a huge freaking family. Huge. She knew it was big, but she's never seen the adults all try to sit at a table in one tiny room in one tiny house before. Passing out the food is an epic affair that takes almost twenty minutes. Meredith doesn't see anybody else eating as soon as they're served, so she waits, stomach rumbling, hunting for a clue about how to act.

When everyone's received their dishes, Carolyn bows her head. Everyone follows suit, except for Derek and Meredith. He looks at Meredith with a _what-is-this?_ expression, but all she can do is shrug.

"Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts," Carolyn begins, which is when Meredith has her duh moment. She bows her head, too. When she peeks out of the corner of her eye, Derek's copying her. The grace is a short one, though, and by the time Meredith's got her head down, Carolyn's already at, "Christ, our Lord. Amen," and Meredith didn't even hear the rest. Oh, well.

Silverware clinks as people reach for forks and knives. "Hey, can I say something?" Kathy says, and everybody pauses.

Carolyn smiles. "Of course."

"I just … wanted to add how thankful I am that all of us can be here today." Kathy doesn't name names, but as she looks around the table, her gaze stops for a long moment on both Rob and Derek. "It's been a really rough few years, and I'm glad we all came out of the bad patch in one piece." She blushes. "That's it, sorry. Eat guys." She waves her hands at the table. "Eat!"

Everyone smiles and digs in.

* * *

"I remember … this," Derek says as he scrapes away the last of his mashed potatoes with his fork.

He takes a bite, a blissful look overtakes his face, and then his Adam's apple bobbles as he swallows. The entire table is a bustle of different conversations flying in different directions among different numbers of people. It's the kind of multiple-stimuli attack Derek can't make heads or tails of no matter how hard he tries, so he's been sticking to his own corner of the table, to the two people adjacent to him. To Meredith. To Carolyn.

Meredith glances at him. "Thanksgiving?" she says.

He sets his fork down. The tines tink against the edge of his plate. He pets the gold rim of his dish. "This … this …," he says. He thinks for a long moment. A burble of laughter plumes from the opposite side of the table, and he's distracted for a moment. He stares in that direction with a jarred expression on his face. When he returns to his original focus, he sighs. He taps the plate with his fingers. "I … I can't say this word."

"The plate?" Meredith says. She notices Carolyn is watching this exchange with interest, though she's not commenting.

"Yes, this," Derek says. "I remember."

"What do you remember about it?" Meredith prods.

She bites her lip when she realizes their audience isn't only Carolyn. The entire table has stopped talking, and everybody is staring at him, and by extension Meredith. She hopes he's deep enough in thought not to notice the scrutiny. Otherwise, she's sure he'll clam up.

"I throwed it," he says. He winces. "Threw. Threw. Threw. I threw it."

Meredith frowns. "You threw a plate?"

"Yes."

Meredith's frown deepens. What in the hell would he throw a plate for? "At what?" she says, incredulous.

"Me," he says. "I threw at me. I catch. Four."

"Derek, are you talking about juggling?" Kathy says.

Meredith snaps her fingers as a memory floods her. "That's right! I saw you juggle at the gala a few years ago. You used to be able to juggle."

Derek looks at Kathy. And then at Meredith. His mouth works while he tries to think of the words he wants to say.

"I remember you juggling, too," Nancy interjects, grinning, before Derek can straighten out the kinks in his brain. Meredith tries to shake her head at Nancy, tries to gesture at her to shut up, but Nancy doesn't see. Crap. "You juggled for the talent show at school. You dragged us all to watch. When Mom-"

"Pause," Derek blurts. "Please … please, p-pause."

She blushes and deflates in her seat. "I'm sorry, Derek," she says in a contrite tone that makes Meredith think Nancy means it. This wasn't willful ignorance. Only a mistake. But the damage is done, and her apology only makes it worse. That was one of the hardest things for Meredith to get the hang of. He doesn't want an apology when someone overloads him. He just wants quiet, so he can catch up.

Derek puts his elbows on the table and his face in his hands, and he hunkers down like he's trying to block out input he doesn't want. He breathes in and out and in and out in long, slow, even breaths, like he's cleansing himself. The table is silent. The table waits.

Derek's a lot more resilient to total shutdown than he used to be when he first came home, and after thirty seconds to churn and sort what he needs, he picks up his head and says, "Juggle is … th-th-throw plate?"

"You can juggle lots of things," Amelia says. "It doesn't have to be plates."

John nods and adds, "And it's not just the throwing that makes it juggling; it's the catching, too."

Kathy grins. "Derek, do you remember when Mom caught you practicing?"

"Oh, my god," Amelia says. "She yelled so loud. I thought she was going to murder him. The whole house shook. DEREK CHRISTOPHER SHEPHERD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY FINE CHINA?"

Carolyn chuckles. "Yes, Derek was a bit of a mischief maker when he was younger."

"Really?" Meredith says, grinning. "I can't picture that at all."

"Oh, he was," Kathy says. "He was just rotten, sometimes." She winks in Derek's direction. "Little pipsqueak."

"I blame Mark for that," Nancy adds with a snort. "Bad influence that he was."

Derek's gaze shifts over all the speakers and comes to rest on Nancy. Meredith thinks this jumping, multiple-speaker exchange might have been too fast for him, but he thinks. He swallows. He tries to say something. It sticks in his throat. He tries again. Another stick. Another try. Another stick. His face reddens.

Meredith reaches under the table and touches his thigh to offer silent support.

Finally, he manages, "I remember … Mark. He … he … h … h … hid. He hid plate I … drop."

"My missing plate?" Carolyn says, gaping. " **You** broke the missing plate in my set?"

"I'm sorry," Derek says. "I didn't … meaned … to break it. M … M …." He makes a frustrated noise. "Meaned. Meaned. Meaned." He takes a deep breath. "Meant. I didn't … meant." At first, he looks happy, like he's hit a bullseye on a dartboard, and Meredith realizes this is the first time she's ever heard him conjugate that correctly. Meant instead of meaned. Except he used it wrong anyway, and he seems to realize this a split second later than she does. He makes a face and squeezes his eyes shut. "Mean. Mean. Didn't … meaned." He's stoplight red when he gives up and deflates into silence with a frustrated, blustering sigh. He puts his face in his hands.

Everybody at the table is wide-eyed. Meredith doesn't think she's ever seen so many different ways of shouting _what-do-we-do?_ with a face before. Meredith rubs his back. He's making this too hard for himself. He's too self-conscious about keeping up, about not disappointing them, and he's created a horrid negative feedback loop for himself. What he needs is to relax, but she doesn't think there's any good way for that to happen when he's under such a hot microscope.

Carolyn leans across the corner of the table and puts a warm hand on his shoulder. She squeezes. "I know you didn't mean to break it, sweetheart," she says, like Derek hasn't just had a meltdown, like nothing is amiss. "That was years ago, anyway. It's okay."

Derek lifts his head. His lips work while he struggles. "I … I'm … I'm sorry. Talk **so** hard. It **so** hard."

Nancy's looking at him with a horrified expression on her face. Like, maybe, it's sinking in for her how badly her too-high expectations screwed with his head on the phone. She says nothing, though.

"Derek, we're so glad you're here with us right now," Kathy says. "Please, don't worry about the words. We just want to spend time with our brother. You could be mute, and it wouldn't matter to me." Several nods around the table accompany her assertion.

He swallows. "What … what is mute?"

"It means no noise," Meredith says. "Someone who can't talk is mute."

"Oh," he says. He rubs the bridge of his nose. The blush is fading from his face as he calms down. A smile wavers on his face. "I'm some mute?"

He's trying. He's trying to pull himself back together. Meredith grins at his tiny joke.

"So, what else do you remember about the broken plate?" Rob prods. "I want to know the ending of the story."

Rob gives the table a brilliant smile, though his eyes are missing a spark. Now that Meredith pays close attention to him, she sees gauntness, too. Too many bones. Too many sharp edges.

"Yes, please," adds Amelia. "Ending!"

Owen nods. "Stories are much better with endings."

Derek looks a little flummoxed. Like he's not used to having the rapt attention of such a large audience. He thinks for a long moment. "Mark … thought … find if .…" He pauses, wincing like he's struggling to assemble his thought. "Trash." Another pause. "Mark bury pieces."

"Mark buried the plate you broke?" Kathy says, piecing together Derek's disconnected narrative. She raises her eyebrows. "Seriously? Where?" She rubs her chin as she thinks. "I wonder if it's still there .…"

Derek thinks for a long moment. "He … p-put … by … cir … circle … circle … box?"

Nancy frowns. "Circle box? What's a circle box?"

"I don't know word," Derek says with a sigh. "It … shapes like cup."

The whole table is frowning, considering. "Circle box," Carolyn says. "Shaped like a cup." She thinks for a moment. "A flower pot?"

"For flower but wood," Derek says. A sound of frustration rumbles in his throat. "Wood circle box."

Nancy claps her hands and brightens. "The barrel. You're talking about the half-barrel. In the backyard. Where Mom plants her petunias every year."

"What is petunia?" he says.

"It's a kind of flower," Meredith says, leaning close to his ear.

"Oh," he says. "Yes, there flower. Petunia pink?"

The table shares glances and shrugs. Amelia scoots her chair back and stands. "Okay, you guys **know** we have to go look, now, right?" Amelia says. "Pie can wait."

Rob snorts. "Don't say that near the kids' table."

Amelia mimes a zipper closing over her lips as she smiles.

* * *

Jaleel stayed back to watch the kids for a few minutes, but everyone from the grownups' table plus Lizzie mills in a shivering semi-circle on the dry, dead grass under the dim backdoor light. Kathleen digs up the ground in a ring around the barrel in the backyard with a small trowel. She uncovers a rotted newspaper that disintegrates as she lifts it from the cold ground. The dirty remains of a shattered plate spill out onto the ground. There are three larger pieces, and about a dozen tinier ones.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Carolyn says, tears in her eyes.

Lizzie sighs. "I miss Mark so much."

"At least we still have Derek," Kathleen says as she fingers the broken pieces. They clink together.

Meredith doesn't miss Nancy, who looks at the broken plate, and then up to Derek, and then back at the broken plate. Her eyes water and spill, but she says nothing. Nothing at all.

"Yes," Amelia agrees, oblivious to Nancy's silent grief. She tightens her arms around her brother. "We still have Derek."

"I've been wondering for years what happened to this," Carolyn says, looking down at the plate. "I always thought your father broke it."

"No," Derek says. "My fault." He swallows. "I tried … five."

"Five?" Meredith says.

He tries to say something for a moment, but gives up and points at the shattered pile on the ground, instead. "I can't throw five and catch." A pause. "Four, yes."

Meredith snickers. "When I saw you juggle, you stuck solidly to three. Playing it safe, eh?"

He grins at her, but shrugs. A frigid breeze blows through the backyard. Tree skeletons creak as dry wood bends.

Kathleen stands and brushes off her slacks, smiling. "So, is it time for the pie, now?"

* * *

"Can I visit you?" Nancy says to Meredith as she dons her scarf.

She's so stuffed she hurts, and she's not sure the buttons of her coat will fasten. Derek, who's farther down the hall, still clutched in a tight sandwich between Carolyn, Kathleen, and Lizzie, doesn't seem much better off. Meredith blinks as she looks up at Nancy.

"Visit?" Meredith parrots.

"I can't fix things with Derek in one dinner," Nancy says. "Can I visit?"

Meredith bites her lip. To her, the idea of Nancy visiting one-on-one has all the appeal of Meredith shoving a thumbtack into her own eye, but … she's trying. She's trying this family thing. And even if Nancy will never be in the Meredith fan club, Derek needs the patient sister who understands and works with his current capabilities, not the rude sister who's been calling him, the one stuck in a freaking fantasy land where cocky, chatty, neurosurgeon Derek still resides.

"Okay," Meredith says.

Nancy gives her a tight smile. "Thank you," she says. And then she retreats to add to the mother-Derek-sister sandwich.

* * *

Meredith and Derek lumber into their waiting cab long after the sun has set. The kids are staying with Carolyn overnight, a fact for which Meredith is grateful. She and Derek curl up in the back seat together. A groan loiters in Derek's throat. He's stuffed to the gill slits, too.

Meredith yawns and curls up under Derek's arm. The cab smells lemon-y, like cleaning solution, and the driver mutters something that could be English, but who the hell knows? Meredith hopes they end up at the Algonquin and not somewhere in Florida or something.

"How are you doing?" Meredith murmurs as the cab rumbles to life, and the driver pulls out into traffic. She kisses Derek's throat just underneath his jawline.

"I'm okay," he says. He takes a moment to think. "My head hurt."

"Sorry," Meredith says.

But all Derek does is grin. He shrugs. He kisses the top of her head. "This worth … hurt."

"Good," Meredith says, smiling.

"Thank you," he says. "Thank you for help … me go here."

"You're welcome," she says.

"Thank you for … you," he adds.

She looks up at him, waiting for him to finish his thought. Or clarify. Or something. But the finality on his face says he's done. She aches when she realizes what he's trying to tell her, and her throat is solid hurt when she echoes, "Thank you for **you**."

His arms tighten around her, and they embrace in the dark.

* * *

The first time she gets an actual look at their hotel room is Friday morning, when she blearily opens her eyes and forgets where the hell she is, but she hears Derek next to her, breathing softly, still asleep, and the sound relaxes her enough to think straight despite her tired stupor. She sits up and rubs her eyes. The room is a small one. It's not a suite, just a single room with a king-sized bed and the pull out sofa the kids slept on. There's a small cabinet containing a television. A tiny mini-fridge and a tiny desk. All in all, the room is just a bed and walls with little else.

Muted sunshine falls through the frilly curtains. The sounds of distant traffic and civilization – horn honks, the chirps of police sirens, the shout of voices – filter up from the street below them, and they make her feel weird, like she's being watched, because she's gotten used to her and Derek's house in the middle of nowhere. She's gotten used to her space.

She's not jet-lagged or stuffed to the point of coma anymore, and she doesn't have the kids to worry about. Until dinner tonight, she has nothing to do except sleep in and enjoy the brief time off from being a mom or a sister-in-law. All she is in terms of family at this moment is a wife.

She glances at her watch. She's slept until 11:47 a.m., which, even considering Seattle time, where it's now 8:47 a.m., is sleeping late for her. Between doctoring and mothering, she rarely has the luxury of staying in bed past 7:30 a.m., and she can't remember the last time she's stayed in bed with Derek this late.

She looks at him. He's buried in blankets and pillows, breathing thickly. All she sees is the jutting, pale bump of his shoulder, the side of his neck, and an ear. The rest is covered. She thinks, what with the excitement of his first train trip, and the time zone change, and the amount of socializing he did last night with his mother and sisters and brothers-in-law and nieces and nephews, he might be in bed for a while yet, recuperating from the chaos.

She slides out from underneath the warm covers and tiptoes to the tiny bathroom. The tile floor is gelid against her bare feet, and she scrunches her toes. After relieving herself, she strips, steps into the shower, and turns on the hot water. She presses her palms against the cold tile wall, bracing herself, and she dips her head under the warm waterfall. All the city sounds disappear into the pelting thunder of the water.

She loses track of time until she hears Derek say, "May I join?"

She pulls back from the spray and swipes her wet hair out of her face. She rubs her eyes and blinks. A shadow hovers by the shower curtain. She smiles. This is a tiny tub, and they won't have much space, but she thinks, in this moment, there's nothing she'd rather do than be cramped in a tiny tub with Derek, the morning after his first talking Thanksgiving.

"Sure," she says, and she backs up a little to give him room.

He steps over the lip of the tub. First, he's nothing but a muscular leg dusted with dark hair and a hand gripping the shower curtain. But then she sees a hip, and a long, pale side, and a sculpted shoulder, and then him. All of him. Derek. And he's smiling at her with his handsome smile and his gorgeous, twinkling eyes.

"Good morning," she says.

His gaze creases with affection. "Zo will say it's not morning," he replies.

She snorts. "Good afternoon," she corrects herself.

He steps into her space and pulls her against him. "Hello," he says, a soft, reverent murmur. When they shift into the spray together, his hair flattens to his scalp, and runnels of water flow down his arms. He kisses her, and all she can hear is the roar. He pulls her washcloth from the rack.

"Did you do this part?" he says, showing her the cloth.

"No," she replies. "Not yet."

"I want to," he says. He swallows. "For you," he clarifies, "not me."

She grins. "Well, how can I say no to that?"

"I have this problem many time," he says.

She snorts. Laugh, not cry, indeed. She cups his cheek and kisses him. "I don't **want** to say no," she says, her tone low and sultry. "There's nothing stuck."

"Hmm," he replies. "Good."

He lathers the washcloth with soap, and then he gives every inch of her body attention. She leans against him, resting her ear against his chest as she relaxes into the slow massage. There's no better way to wake up in the morning. He rubs her back in soothing, wide circles, and she can't help but sigh.

"Is this okay?" he says against her ear, a rumble.

"Yes," she says. "More than." She leans into his touch as he dips low against her belly. "Mmm," she purrs.

She's not sure when he ditches the washcloth, not sure of anything but the fact that she's in a tiny shower, dwarfed by her alive, aroused husband. He steps behind her, pressing close, until what she feels at her back is a solid wall of skin and bone and muscle. His growing erection pokes into her at first, but he shifts and arranges himself so it's trapped between them, resting vertically along her spine, and he holds her in a tight embrace.

He cups her breast with his weak hand, rubbing in gentle, slow circles around her nipple with his thumb. His motion there is imprecise and somewhat halting, an issue wrought by his weak motor control, but she can't bring herself to care; it still feels wonderful. His palm is warm and wet, and he knows what she likes and where and when. He nudges her legs apart with his knee. With his strong hand, he pushes between her thighs to cup her. She can't stop the tiny gasp that falls from her lips.

The pounding thunder of the water drowns them. She tilts her head back, but she can't reach to kiss him until he tips his gaze toward her, sees what she wants, and devours her. He plunges, tasting, touching, and she welcomes him. Her insides tighten like a screw as he kisses her, and he touches her, and he takes her somewhere else. Somewhere outside the shower. Somewhere far away from reality, a warm, still, silent place where, though he doesn't say it, she knows she's deeply loved. She knows it like she knows gravity will pull her back to earth if she jumps.

Her release is a snowball. It builds from a speck, and she looses a discombobulated moan when she feels it start to roll down the hill. She grabs at nothing because there's nothing to grab, but he holds her upright, pulled against him. The snowball tumbles, picking up speed, and the moan becomes a yes. "Yes, yes," she manages. He presses against her with his thumb like he's pushing a button, and the snowball keeps rolling, until she can't breathe, and she can't speak, and all she can do is arc like a taut bow. Her whispered yeses slide into hitching moans that catch in her throat, her face becomes a rictus of pleasure, and then the snowball hits the bottom of the hill and flies apart into zillions of icy, snowy pieces. All the tension in her body pops loose at once. She scrabbles at nothing. Her legs twitch. Her abdomen pulses with contractions. She loses control of everything. She floats as the pieces of snowball fly to their final resting places. For a long moment that stretches into infinity, all she can do is float. And then she comes back to her senses with a heaving sigh. She regains her footing, and her thoughts, and everything that she lost, but she still has him. Wrapped around her. Holding her.

The shower water falls like rain. All she wants to do is stand there in his arms, lax and breathing and half-asleep with her sated desire. Derek kisses her. And he kisses her again. And again. She thinks nothing can make this moment more perfect.

"Meredith?" he murmurs against her ear.

She swallows. "Hmm?"

"I want to try," he says.

"Try what?" she says, because she's not thinking straight. She can't think straight when she's cradled in his arms like this.

"Sex," he says. "I want to try."

That's enough to snap her back to full sentience. She turns in his arms. He's full and aroused and waiting for her. He blushes when she looks up at him, but he stares back at her, unblinking. His eyes are dark in the dim light behind the shower curtain, his expression heady. Drunk. He's drunk on her.

"Now?" she says, just to be sure.

He thinks for a long moment. "Is now bad?" he says.

She reaches between them and cups him. His skin there is veined and feather soft and slippery with water. He inhales sharply when she touches him, and then he blows his breath out in a slow deflation. Like he's trying to keep himself from rutting into her hand.

"You're sure?" she says.

He smiles at her. "I'm sure." He kisses her. "I want to try."

"Can you tell me what changed your mind?" she says, because she doesn't want to mess this up. She doesn't want to drag him into something he's not ready for, and she has to be sure. She has to be sure that he's sure.

"You say that sex is better than this," he says.

"Well, it **can** be," she agrees.

"I want to feel this better thing," he says. "With you." He pauses to think for a moment. His lips move. She waits while he sorts himself out. "When I … I have good day, I wish … give you … good feeling. When I'm … sad … you help me make less .…"

She freezes. Her mind drifts back to the day he asked about love. What love meant to her. _When I hurt, I want you there to take it away,_ she'd said. _When I'm happy, I want to share it with you. I just love you._ He's paraphrasing in his own aphasia way, but he's saying it. He's saying that he loves her. Hell, he's put it up on a billboard with flashing neon lights. The only way he could be more direct about it would be to utter the three words she's been waiting for. I love you.

"I want to feel this better thing with you," he repeats. He licks his lips like he's nervous. "I want to be with you."

She was wrong before, she realizes, as a smile stretches across her face. This moment **could** get more perfect. It just did.

* * *

They dry off in the tiny, cramped bathroom, and she leads him back to the bed. He doesn't speak, but his arousal remains a firm, ready salute despite the romance-less shift in locale, which tells her what he's thinking more than words ever could.

"We … can … cannot in the shower?" he says.

She pushes her fingers through his damp hair and smiles at him. "Our height difference makes it kind of difficult to do in there. Let's start simple, okay?"

He nods. "Okay."

She stares at the bed for a long moment. It's weird. She's not nervous about sex. She's never been nervous about sex in the entire time that she's known him. But she's nervous, now.

This is his first time. The first that he'll remember in detail, anyway. And she wants so badly to make it a good memory for him. A good first.

He's a fast freaking learner, and she has no doubt he'll learn to do things with as much gusto and skill as he used to. But, for now … easier is better. Cowgirl, maybe, if she wants to give him a good ride. Though it's a bland position, missionary, maybe, if she wants him to be able to have a decent first shot in the driver's seat. After a quick internal debate, she sits on the bed and lies on her back. This is his first experience. Not hers. He should be able to dictate how it goes for him. In his own terms. At his own pace. So, missionary it is.

He climbs into bed next to her and presses up against her so they're flush. He's not on top, really, sort of toppled to the side, resting against her at a diagonal. Waiting. He's covered in deep blush. His face. His neck. His chest. She kisses him. Pulls her fingers through his hair.

He gives her a wavering smile as she pulls away. "I'm … I'm … I'm some nervous," he admits in a soft, shivery whisper.

"Me, too," she says.

He blinks. "You?" he says with surprise. "Why are you nervous?"

"Because we haven't done this in over a year and a half," she says. She strokes his scalp along the scar. "Because I love you, and you're new at this, and I want it to be good for you. I mean … not the sex. The sex itself won't be good. Not the first time. I can almost guarantee it. But sharing this moment. I want **that** to be good."

He stares at her for a long moment without speaking, and she winces. She's babbling. She's babbling **in bed** with him, the one place she never wants him to feel like he has no hope of keeping up, and she's messing this up before they've even done anything. Crap. She bites her lip as he takes what feels like an eternity to parse through her mess, but he doesn't ask what the hell she's said. Doesn't do anything but smile back at her.

"It will be good," he says after a while. He kisses her. "It's with you."

A lump forms in her throat, and she swallows. "Sorry, I babbled."

"You make sex a brain puzzle, too," he says, and he winks.

She laughs. She can't help it. She loves that he has his sense of humor back. The same biting snark as before, but so often, now, self-deprecating, rather than derisive toward others. It's him. But it's not him at the same time. Much like the rest of his personality. She can see Old Derek if she looks. She knows he's alive and well and with her always. But he's New Derek, now.

"You thinking," he says. Not a question, but a question, anyway.

"I'm just …," she says. She shrugs, stroking the deep runnel in his skull. "Derek, I hate that this happened to you. I do. Don't ever think I don't. But … I love some of the things that have happened afterward."

"Yes," he says, and the lump in her throat grows bigger, because he gets her. He gets her like he's always gotten her.

His body shifts. The covers rustle. He kisses her on the temple. On the cheek. On the lips. He pushes his fingers through her hair, though he gets stuck in wet tangles, and doesn't go far. His palm is warm against her scalp, though his hand is shaking. He kisses her again, presses his tongue into her mouth to taste her, and a tiny, skipping moan pops loose from her throat. When he pulls back, his pupils are dilated with desire, and his breaths are tight.

"This will … not make kid?" he says.

She shakes her head. "No. I'm taking something to prevent that."

"Okay," he says. He swallows, and his blush deepens. "Meredith, what do I do?"

She takes his hand, and she guides him between her thighs. "First, you want to see if I'm ready." He turned her into a sopping mess in the shower, and it hasn't been long enough for her body to reabsorb any of that. She thinks she's more than ready. "You don't want to hurt me. Wet means it won't hurt."

"Okay," he says. He cups her. Feels. "This is ready?"

"Yeah," she says. "You covered the foreplay part pretty well in the shower."

"Foreplay?" he says.

She shakes her head. "The part where you get me, and by extension, you, ready."

"Okay," he says.

"Remember how I said sex is intimate? It's putting part of yourself inside me?"

He nods. "Yes. I remember."

She cups his hand, where he's resting against her slick heat. His hand is still shaking. She nudges his index finger and presses him into her. Inside. A soft sound collects in his throat. "This is where," she says.

"With …." he manages. He pulls his hand away from her and touches himself. His erection.

"Right," she says. She squeezes his shoulder. Strokes his side. She roams over his ribcage. "You don't have to be nervous about this part," she says. "Please, don't be nervous. There's no way you can mess this up for me."

He swallows. "You say this part … this part will … not be good?"

The look on his face says he's thinking she means the presence of badness, not the lack of goodness. If this were **her** first time, too, the whole story would be different, but he's got her as a coach, and they've already avoided a lot of rookie mistakes that cause problems. She shakes her head. "No, no, I didn't mean it like that."

"What do you mean?" he says.

"It's …," she says. She's not sure how to explain. "A unique experience. If you're not used to it, it'll be over pretty fast. The more you do it, the more creative you can get to stretch out the length of time it takes."

"You mean it's quick, not bad?"

She nods. "Right. Exactly. And it won't always be quick."

"I … get creative, and it's not quick?"

She kisses him. "Yes," she says. She grins at him. "Practice makes perfect, after all."

He snorts, and then he gives her another wavering smile. "I'm still nervous," he confesses.

She pulls his shaking hand to her lips and kisses him. "We don't have to do this, now. If you're not ready. It's okay if you're not ready, after all."

"I want to," he says. "I want this so much."

She splays her palm against his chest and rubs in slow, soothing circles. "Whatever you want," she says. "Whenever you're ready. However fast or slow you want to go. It's up to you."

He gives her a shaky nod. At first she thinks he's going to lie there with her for a while. Try and wait out the nerves while they cuddle. But then he picks his body off the mattress and shifts so he's straddling her. His weight presses against her lower torso, but he keeps his upper body off her, and she can breathe without trouble. She spreads her legs for him.

"I'm not too heavy?" he says.

She shakes her head and runs her fingers through the soft, wispy curls on his chest. She smiles. "Not too heavy."

"Okay," he says, a soft, nervous whisper.

"I love you," she says, hoping to encourage him. "I love you so much, Derek. There's no way to mess this up for me. I'm happy just to be with you."

He overcomes his nerves a bit, and his responding smile is a brilliant one, like August sunshine glinting off Elliott Bay. She smiles back at him. In this wordless space, he can say it back to her, that he loves her, even if he's still not ready for saying it out loud. She knows how he feels by how he looks at her, by the way he searches her gaze with his own, by the way his expression softens when he's eye to eye with her, and she's content to know his mind, even though he can't speak it.

"I wish I can remember other times," he says.

"You won't mess up," she assures him. "It's impossible. Honest."

He huffs with a quiet, affectionate laugh. "No, I meaned …." He kisses her. "I wish I can remember **you**. I lose … lose … lost so much."

She gives his hips a squeeze. "So, let's make some new memories, okay?"

"Yes," he says. He takes a deep breath.

His first try at joining with her, he pushes against her lower body without guidance, and he bumps into and then slides up over her pubic bone. "You might need to steer a little," she coaches. "Reach down with one hand."

He nods, and he follows her instructions. This time, he hits home, and from his tight gasp, he knows it. He hovers, pressing against her opening, and he clears his throat like he's been overwhelmed. "This … okay?"

"It's okay," she says. And then she grins and gives him a joke-y come-hither wave. "Come on in."

He laughs, which is what she intended. He takes his guiding hand away and jams it into the mattress to balance himself. Then he does as she beckons. Millimeter by very slow millimeter, like he's scared he'll break her or something. She hasn't had him inside her in so long, though, that she's tight, and she's grateful for the chance to adjust to his girth. By the time his hilt meets her, she's full with him, and she can't help but close her eyes and smile, because it feels wonderful. Just having him there again. Making her whole. Being connected.

 _Wait for me,_ he said. And, now, he's come home.

He makes a choking, gasping sound, but it's not a sound the speaks discomfort. Rather, the opposite. "Feels good?" she says with a smile. She squeezes her pelvic floor around him, and he makes a shivery, wavering, nonsensical noise.

His jaw drops open, and he lies there with a stupefied look on his face as his body trembles. She does it again, and he moans for her, long and low and strangled. With a shivery swallow, he finds enough sentience to say, "Yes." He adds a clipped nod for good measure.

She grins and squeezes him another time, delighting in the noises he makes. "Really good?" she prods.

"Yes," he says, the word tight and crushed in his chest. His lips move, like he's trying to speak, but he's having trouble. She scrunches her fingers at the nape of his neck. "Yes…." He swallows. "Unique. You … right."

For a long time, all he does is hover there, buried inside her, not moving. "Do what feels good to you," she says. She thinks, though, that he might not have a clue what would feel good to him in relation to the pretty freaking good that he already feels, so she adds, "Men are kinda built to enjoy friction."

He swallows. "Friction?"

"Um … um …." It's hard to think when she has him sheathed inside her. She squeezes around him, and he gasps again. "Rubbing. Friction is rubbing. Pull out; push in." She gives him a somewhat lewd example with her hands.

He nods. "Okay."

He pulls out an inch and pushes back in, another millimeter by millimeter march of skin sliding on skin. He does it again. And again. His pace picks up every time.

"This … right?" he says.

"Yes, that's right," she says. She grins. "Take me for a ride, Derek."

At this point, she thinks his body is doing a pretty good job telling him what he needs to do, because he speeds up, and his thrusting starts to encompass more of his full length. Two inches. Then three and four and five and six, until the only part that never comes unsheathed is the head.

"This … not … hurt?" he says.

She shakes her head. "No, Derek. It doesn't hurt." She clutches at his back, grips his hips with her knees. "It feels … very, **very** good," she adds in a croaky voice as he comes home again.

Time becomes a thing that's outside their bubble, outside the bed.

She's right. In the grand scheme of sex, this sex is not good. He's so focused on what he's doing with his lower body that he doesn't kiss her. He doesn't alter his rhythm. He doesn't use his hands for anything other than propping his upper body up, so that he doesn't crush her. The pleasure involved in the experience is uneven, and she suspects she won't get another release out of this. But that's okay.

The sex is not good, no, but the moment is perfect anyway.

She loves him, in that moment, even more than she already did. She loves him so much that she aches with it. She loves that even though she's screwed up, he still trusts her with this moment, no hesitation, no regret. This is the most vulnerable a person can ever be, naked, sharing a union, and he's letting her have this with him. **He** wants to have this with **her**.

She loves, too, that no alcohol brought them here, no one-night-stand shoved them together. This time, the sex came after companionship, and that makes this not just a first for him, but a first for her, too. When she looks at him, she sees her best friend, first. Her person in the truest sense of the word. He's her lover, second.

And that's a wonderful first.

She has no idea how long it's been when he gasps, and his erection kicks into motion inside her. She has no idea how long it's been when she feels him spilling into her. She has no idea. She doesn't care. Stamina wasn't what this was about, anyway.

His weight increases as his trembling arms give out. He pants beside her ear as he pumps into her. She squeezes around him as he empties. She pulls her fingers through his hair and scrunches her hands at the nape of his neck as his panting slows to thick, relaxed, even breathing. His body rests on top of her. He's heavy. A deadweight. She'll mind in a minute or two, but for now, she can't make herself care even a little.

"So, how did it rate?" she says, grinning.

He groans against her ear. Not a word. Not even a syllable. Just a noise. Maybe, in one-to-ten ratings, this means, perhaps, eleven. She rubs his back, and she laughs. He's a bit too overwhelmed by this whole experience to laugh with her, but he manages to lift his head and give her shaky smile.

After a minute, he finds the presence of mind to support himself, again. His arms shake, and his weight lessens, but he still rests along her length, skin-to-skin, his chest mashed to hers, warm, breathing, alive. He stares down at her with a hooded gaze. In his dark eyes, as she stares back at him, unblinking, she finds stars.

"What are you thinking?" she whispers.

At first, he doesn't speak. Maybe, he hasn't found his words yet. Old Derek used to be a chatterbox in bed. Dirty comments. Romantic comments. Snarky comments. Depending on the mood he was trying to set, he always had something to say. She thinks, perhaps, New Derek will be a silent partner. Talking is work for him, and sex takes away his ability to focus on speech. Old Derek used to speak with his eyes, too, though, and she finds New Derek just as chatty as he's always been in that respect.

That's enough for her. These silent conversations.

She lifts her head off the pillow to kiss him. He kisses her in return, a low rumble of sated pleasure loitering in his throat. He pulls back, though, before she can get lost in the closeness again. She stares at him. His mouth opens and closes. She strokes his hair while he thinks, and he thinks, and she waits. She'll wait for him forever.

"I … th … think … l-l-love … you," he says, the words piercing the silence like bells. From anyone else, this would be a hesitant, halting, somewhat insulting admission after all they've been through. _I think I love you._ From him, though, she knows his speech patterns when he's having issues, and there's nothing reluctant or doubting about it. _I'm thinking that I love you._ He's not hesitant – he's answering her question.

She wants to freeze this moment forever. She wants to frame it. Her heart tightens in her chest, and a lump forms in her throat, and she's caught his aphasia. For a moment, she can't speak. She blinks tears away. He brushes her cheeks with the pad of his thumb, one cheek and then the other, but he seems to understand these aren't sad tears, because he's grinning ear to ear at her, and the stars in his eyes are bright like a spinning galaxy. She makes him see stars.

"I love you," he repeats, more put together, now that he's figured out how to translate thought to word. He shifts, pulling out of her, and he slides to the side, still close, still in her space, but no longer trapping her underneath him. And then he laughs. Like saying these words is a revelation for him. His smile is brilliant. He kisses her, and then he says it again. "I love you."

 _I'm in love with you,_ she can hear him say in the back of her mind. _I've been in love with you for … ever._

She clears her throat. "I'm so glad you're alive to tell me that," she manages with an overwhelmed croak.

He gives her a soft smile. "Yes," he says. "Me, too."

She grins back at him. "I love you, too," she replies, and she feels like she's flying. Because she said, "too." Her affection isn't standing underneath a spotlight somewhere on a stage, huddled, and scared, and unreciprocated. A comfortable silence spreads between them. The world stops, and she feels warm, and safe, and loved.

"Can I do this again?" he asks. He kisses her.

"Now?" she says.

He nods, and he gives her a sly grin. "You say practice is good."

She snorts. "We might have to wait a bit," she says. She strokes his flaccid length. He jerks away from her touch. She bites her lip. "Sorry," she says. She forgot how sensitive he is right after release.

He shakes his head as if to say, _Never mind that – I'm fine._ "How long?" he says.

"I seem to recall forty minutes or so," she says with an apologetic frown.

But all he does is widen his grin. He kisses her again. "I amuse us until then," he says, and he drinks any response she might give, pressing his lips to hers. She puts her hand against his chest, fingernails raking flesh. When he stops to breathe, she looks him in the eyes. He's so close to her. "What?" he says.

"Can we, maybe, just lie here?" she says.

His gaze softens. He tightens his arms around her. "This make you happy?"

"Yes," she says. She pushes him again, and he lets her guide him onto his back. She curls up against him, and she rests her ear against his chest. She wraps her arm across his waist. She listens to him breathe. "Yes, it does. Very much."

"If you like this," he says, the words a soothing rumble through his breastbone, "I stay forever."

She smiles at him. She kisses his chest. And then she resettles, ear pressed against him. He strokes her back, dragging his fingers along her spine. His chin rests against the top of her head.

The world stays stopped for a while.


	29. Epilogue

**Author's Notes:**

Well, here we are! The final chapter! I've left plenty of loose ends (such as the vow renewal), so I may come back to this universe for a short/medium story at some point if the mood hits me. Immediately after this, though, it's back to AATW. I need to finish that. Badly.

Thank you again so much for all the feedback. If you've been holding back on me, this is your last chance to chime in :)

* * *

 **Epilogue**

Every bone in her body aches. Every muscle throbs. All she wants is to close her eyes. She slumps into the plastic chair, unclenching her fingers as she sags. What feels like dozens of bags drop to the floor in a messy, massive heap around her body and the chair, to the point that she feels a bit like she's standing in for the freaking Christmas tree herself. Well, she thinks, staring blearily at her haul, maybe not **dozens**. Not in this batch by itself, anyway. She's carried several loads back to the car to save herself from the indignity of having her arms fall off somewhere like she's an abused Barbie doll.

Sarah snaps her fingers in front of Meredith's face. "Hey!" Sarah snaps. "Hey, don't crap out on me, now. We still have to hit the bookstore."

Meredith rubs her eyes. "Can't you hit the bookstore while I sit here and pretend I hit the bookstore?"

Sarah snorts and collapses into the chair beside her. The food court in the mall is a bustling nightmare of frantic, last-minute Christmas shoppers. A rumble of excited conversation clots the atmosphere, almost burying the faint sound of Christmas carols lilting from the overhead speakers. The smell of fried food makes Meredith scrunch her nose. It's kind of a cognitive dissonance – Christmas and fried food – but no amount of cinnamon can drown the scent of french fries, burgers, and grease.

Meredith and Sarah have been fighting the crowds since morning, trying to work their way down both Meredith's and Sarah's massive shopping lists. "I don't know why I decided this would be a good idea," Meredith grumbles. "I hate Christmas shopping. And Christmas in general. I'm not a Christmas-y person!"

"But Derek is," Sarah says.

"Before the accident," Meredith says. "Who the hell knows, now?"

"You told me this morning to remind you if you got crabby that you wanted to do the family thing," Sarah prods Meredith. "Remember?"

"Well, I was a freaking moron this morning," Meredith says. "A freaking moron who didn't realize how much crap I would need to buy. Nine nieces, five nephews, four sisters-in-law, four brothers-in-law, one mother-in-law, plus my own freaking kids and husband." She kicks at the nearest bag. "I need a dump truck. I can't believe Derek used to **enjoy** this." Seriously, she always knew how demented he was about this stupid holiday, but now she has proof positive that he was a loon.

"Ah hah!" a familiar voice says, and Meredith looks up to see Stewart limping toward them with a zillion more bags in tow. He joins them at the table. "Ladies," he says as he sits. "How goes the ho ho hoedown?"

"I got everything except that book Lindsey wanted," Sarah says. She glances at Meredith and winks. " **Someone** decided to call it quits before we managed to hit the bookstore."

"Oh, I'll hit the bookstore," Meredith says. "I'll punch it. Right in the freaking nose."

Stewart snorts as he spreads his knees and slouches into his chair, a classic guy-in-repose array of limbs. He sighs like he's relieved to be off his feet, and Meredith doesn't miss the fleeting look of pain that passes through his features like a bolt of lightning before it disappears. "So, any calls?" he says.

"Nope," Meredith says. "Not a single one all day." She glances at her watch. Eight hours. Eight hours, she's been at this stupid mall, buying everything under the sun in support of a serious I'm-trying-to-be-more-involved-now-I-swear campaign. Eight hours without a phone call from Derek. No texts, either. Not one single _help!_ She lets herself grin despite her exhaustion. "I think we might be in the clear." She sighs. "But seriously, I'm done. I'm not sure I can walk to the car from here, let alone the bookstore."

Sarah and Stewart exchange a wordless glance that contains a long conversation. Talk without talking. Something Meredith's gotten well versed in, trying to navigate around Derek's difficulties with speech.

"Well, don't look at me," Stewart says aloud. "If my knee had tear ducts, it would be crying buckets right now."

"Fine," Sarah says with a huff. "Fine, I'll go. But you owe me wrapping."

"Happily," Stewart says. "I **like** wrapping."

Meredith snorts. "Derek used to like that part, too. He'd cut the paper with a pocket scalpel and tape it up with surgical tape."

"Hey, there's an idea," Sarah says as she pushes back her chair. "Surgical tape is super durable. It would survive the mail really well." The chair legs squawk against the tile floor. "Meredith, do you have anything you want me to grab from the bookstore?"

"Nope," Meredith says. "I'll just sit here, basking in my shopping doneness."

In essence, like Thanksgiving, this is Derek's first "real" Christmas, and she wants it to be special. Last Christmas, he was monosyllabic, still, struggling to eject every single word out of his mouth, rather than suffering only the occasional stumble. He couldn't walk, yet, or make a fist, or do things out in the world by himself. He didn't get a chance to decorate a tree, or listen to Christmas carols, or buy presents, or wrap things, or do any of the Christmas-y stuff he used to delight in, except spending the morning with Meredith and the kids.

She closes her eyes, resting them, and she doesn't see Sarah depart. Meredith hurts. Everywhere. She's never shopped so much in her freaking life. But she's trying. Both for herself, for the family thing Derek always thought she could use, and for him. Hell, she's got this whole big, special, series gift planned for him, and everyth-

"Crap!" she blurts, snapping upright when she remembers. She was so busy trying to buy crap for his family, she forgot about her list for **him**.

Stewart frowns at her from across the table. "Crap?"

"I **do** need to go to the bookstore," she says. "I forgot. Will you watch all my bags?"

Stewart nods. "Sure. What should I do if they move?"

Meredith snorts. "Cute," she says, and she gathers up her coat, gloves, scarf, and purse, and makes a dash for it.

* * *

She doesn't dash far. The bookstore in question isn't actually in the shopping mall, but rather across the street. The wet air is freezing, and she shrugs back into her outdoor apparel, wincing at her protesting muscles. She stops for a moment, resting, pressing her soft red scarf against her mouth and nose. The scarf is brand new in the sense that she's only owned it for a few hours, but it didn't come from a store. It came from Derek, and it smells like his things. Like his pillow. She likes it.

 _Wait,_ he said that morning, approaching her with the scarf clutched in his hands, just before she left for the mall with Stewart and Sarah. Derek stepped out into the cold air and onto the stoop, huddled in the thick blue bathrobe Meredith had given him last Christmas. The engine of Stewart's old station wagon was already making a put-put-put-put noise in the distance, and Meredith waved at him to tell him to go on ahead. Stewart nodded, craned his neck around, and proceeded to back out of their long, gravel driveway. Sarah, meanwhile, was waiting in Meredith's Jeep, but she seemed engrossed in some game on her phone.

Meredith turned back to Derek. He proffered his bundle to her, and she took it with a dumb look on her face. _What is this for?_ she said.

 _I maked it for you,_ he said. _It's my one … one … one …."_ He sighed. _"My first. My first done one._ He made a face. _The other didn't look …._ He thought for a long moment, syllables collecting in his throat. _The other was bad. I didn't finish._

She knew about the other scarf. She's seen him working on it from time to time. The other was a deep forest green color, and it was the one his mother helped him start. The quality changed from shoddy Meredith-did-it to professional Carolyn-did-it as he knitted from end to end. Meredith thought the constructional metamorphosis rather endearing. She had no idea he'd worked on a second one, though.

She let the scarf unfurl. He'd picked out a bright, blazing scarlet that matched her favorite bathrobe. _It's beautiful._ _I love this color._

He grinned. _It's freeze today. I thought you will like this, now, instead … later._

 _I do,_ she said, wrapping the scarf around her neck, and her arms around his body. _I_ _love you_ _,_ she said. _Thank you._ _Y_ _ou_ _'ll_ _call if you need any help?_

 _Yes, Meredith,_ he said, a soft murmur against her ear. _I will call if problem._ _I love you, too._

* * *

When Meredith jams her key into the front lock in the darkness, she clenches her teeth. The moment of truth. The door opens, hinges moaning a little in the chilly, wet air. The sight before her takes a moment to sink in, but when it does, a wide grin stretches across her face, replacing nervousness with contentment.

The smell of woodsmoke fills the air. A fire dances in the fireplace. Derek and all four kids are sitting at the dining room table, playing Memory. Bailey sits in Derek's lap. The Christmas tree stands tall in the corner of the room, covered in brilliant lights and ornaments. Christmas carols play from the speaker system in the living room. Felix bats a stray ornament across the rug – some stuffed … white … thing. Meredith can't see what it is from this distance, but it's not shiny, so it's not glass, and she doesn't feel the need to confiscate the makeshift cat toy.

"Hi, Mom!" Lindsey says, looking up from their Memory game. Annie gives a little wave and smiles shyly, but doesn't say anything, and Stewart waves back at her with a giant hand and a goofy grin.

"Wow, you guys got a lot done today!" Sarah says as she looks around. Her gaze pauses on the stockings over the fireplace, which weren't there this morning, and then migrates to the beautiful tree, which wasn't there, either. Well, the naked tree was there. But not this decorated splendor.

Derek sets Bailey down on the floor and stands. He grins. "Yes, I spended … hour … phone," Derek says. "Mom tell me … how …." He struggles for a minute, lips working in silence as he tries to get his vocal cords to cooperate. "How …." He swallows. "D … decorate."

"We 'cated tree wif Dada!" Bailey says. "It fun!"

Zola puffs up in her seat like a peacock. "I got to do the star on top! Daddy lifted me!"

Meredith gives the tree another appraising glance.

The tree isn't a perfect Martha Stewart project like some of Derek's trees in past years have been. Derek used to do this thing with the light strands where he would wrap every individual branch twice, moving in toward the trunk and back out toward the edges as he made his way in circles around the tree, from bottom to top. The result was nuclear – it literally made the air around the tree hot – and took him all day, and thousands of lights, to complete. She sees this technique repeated this year, but in moderation. Not **every** branch is wrapped, and on every branch with lights, he's only coiled the light strands once instead of twice. Also, it's clear from its decorative distribution – all the breakable ornaments sprinkled tastefully on top, and all the more durable ornaments hanging in uneven clumps on bottom – that this was a joint project between him and all the kids, something she can't recall him doing before. The sight of the star at the top makes her chest hurt, now, knowing how the decoration got there. She wishes she'd been there to take a picture of that moment.

"You guys did a **great** job," Meredith says, a lump forming in her throat.

Derek grins. "This is not … too much … vomit?"

"Erm," Stewart interjects, frowning. "Did you mean to say vomit? Though, what word even semi-related to vomit could have fit in that sentence … I have no idea."

Derek snickers. "She calls decoration vomit. Christmas vomit."

"You know," Meredith clarifies when Stewart's frown deepens. "Like Santa threw up?"

Sarah snorts. "Good way to put it."

Derek's looking at her, eyes raised askance, and so Meredith adds, "It's just the right amount of vomit. Thank you."

Derek's grin widens. They share a look. She bites her lip and smiles back at him.

Something beeps in the kitchen, and his gaze snaps in that direction. "I check," he says, and he slips past everybody, back into the kitchen.

"You guys, sit!" Meredith says, waving Stewart and Sarah away before they can offer to help. Her body hurts, aches throbbing through all her leg joints and hips like banging gongs, but she can hold out for a few more minutes. "Let me get you both something to drink." And then she follows Derek.

Meredith's not sure what the hell food Derek is making, but when he yanks open the oven door to check whatever's inside, the scent of cooking … something … explodes into the room in a warm blast. Her empty stomach gurgles in anticipation. She steps past Felix's food and water dishes and into the space behind Derek. She wraps her arms around his waist after he straightens and closes the oven door.

"Hello," he says in a soft, reverent tone. He turns in her arms to face her, and he presses his lips to hers.

"Hi," she says, grinning back at him. She puts her hands in the back pockets of his jeans, mashing up against him. "So, everything went okay today?"

"Yes," he says. "I have no difficult." He shakes his head, making a face. "Trouble," he says, correcting himself. He grins at her, and her heart squeezes at his joyful expression. "I take care of them myself."

She leans onto her tiptoes and kisses him. He's wanted this for months. Today, all his hard work came to fruition. It'll be a while before he's replacing Melody, but this is an auspicious start.

"You did," she says, smiling. "So, when are you doing **your** shopping?"

He doesn't respond. All he gives her is a mischievous _I-know-something-you-don't-know_ look that tells her he's already done it.

"You want to see if you still like wrapping tonight after the Mannings leave?" she says. "I bought a zillion things."

Derek snorts. "I like wrap gift." A pause. He thinks. "Wrapping," he says, fixing his grammar. "I will wrap if you wish … me … wrap … them." He frowns, like he's not quite happy with what he's said, but he doesn't struggle to correct himself or beat himself up over it. That's nice to see.

She pulls her fingers from his jeans pockets and rubs his back. "You remember wrapping?" she says.

He shakes his head. "No, I wrap new things."

"So, you **did** go Christmas shopping already," she confirms. He nods. "When on earth did you do that?"

"Yeah," Stewart chimes in from the living room with a sheepish look on his face. "About that last basketball game …."

Meredith laughs. "Who'd you get presents for?"

Derek gives her an innocent shrug, and he doesn't answer her except to say, "I guess we will see on Christmas." His eyes twinkle as he makes a shooing motion with his hands. "Now, go away, please."

Meredith frowns. "What? Why?"

"If you get close, something will burn," he says with an evil smirk and a brief glance toward the oven.

"Hey," she says. "That's mean. You're mean. You're a very mean man."

"I'm not mean," he says as his hands slide low against her spine. And lower, and lower, still. "I'm nice." He kisses her. "Very nice."

She leans onto her tiptoes to kiss him in return. His lips taste like sugar. A candy cane, maybe? "Well, you taste nice, at least," she says, grinning at him.

His arms tighten around her body, and she rests with her cheek against his chest as she sinks back onto her heels. She strokes his pectoral muscle over his heart, and his soft, wrinkled t-shirt flattens under her palm.

"I love you," he says in a velvet tone, as easily as if he's been saying it his entire life.

"I love you, too," she says. She pets the supple plane of his body under her palm, stopping as she slides past the ripple of his ribs.

"Hey, break it up," Stewart says. "You're offending my puritanical sensibilities!"

"Puritanical in what universe?" Sarah grumbles.

"Mirror Kirk. Mirror Spock," Stewart says without pausing. "Totally puritanical compared to that crazy."

Derek snorts but steps out of Meredith's arms to pull out some serving dishes. "I … I want. I want … to … see this," he says.

Stewart nods. "Patience, young padawan. We've still got one more _Star Wars_ movie to watch before we can break you in on _Star Trek_."

Meredith grabs beer for Stewart and a fresh bottle of wine for everybody else from the fridge – her original mission. She yanks some glasses out of the cabinet and heads back into the living room with her bounty while Derek toils with his delicious-smelling-whatever-it-is.

* * *

"Wow," Derek says, staring at her haul as she sets the last bag on top of the bed. It took them four trips from the car to carry everything inside, though the book she got him, _101 Things to Do_ _i_ _n Portland,_ remains safely ensconced in a plastic bag underneath her driver's seat. She can't wrap that one until she slips the train tickets she bought him into the book sleeve, anyway. "I … wow," Derek repeats in a weightier tone, dragging her attention back to the dilemma at hand.

He looks down at the single roll of tape and Santa kitten wrapping paper he left on the floor by the bed with a pair of scissors in preparation for the wrapping job, and then back to the presents mountain, and he frowns. Meredith can hear that guy from _Jaws_ in her head, muttering the iconic line, _You're going to need a bigger boat_. Derek turns to her, eyebrows raised. It's after nine. The kids are in bed. The Mannings have all gone home. "You buy … much … thing."

Meredith rolls her eyes. "Oh, don't look at me like that," she says. "It's **your** fault."

His eyebrows rise further toward his hairline. "My fault?" he says with a smirk. "What did I … … d …." He thinks for a moment. "Do?"

She resists the urge to cheer for him, over the fact that he can be this tired, after a full day of parenting four children and doing the Christmas decoration thing, and still get that right on the first try. She steps into his space. "A, it's all for **your** stupid family." She grins. "B, **you're** the Christmas addict." She rises to her tiptoes and kisses him. "C …."

"C?" he echoes with an expectant look.

She snorts. "Well, I don't have a C right now, but I'll think of something."

His gaze creases with affection. He kisses her once before pulling out of her arms. He picks up the first bag and sits on the floor with it. The bag contains some shiny new knitting needles and several skeins of yarn that Meredith thought were pretty.

"For … Mom?" he says.

Meredith nods. "Yeah," she says. She frowns. "I hope she likes it. I had no idea what to get her. I suck at this."

"You don't suck," he says. He pets the first skein. The soft bundle of yarn is Meredith's favorite shade of purple – a deep lavender like she stole a sprig from a bouquet. "I'm sure she will like," he says. But he stares at the skeins and the needles with a frown.

"What's the matter?" she says, looking down at him.

"Nothing," he says. He gives her a reassuring smile. "I think … how … wrap."

"Oh," she says. She thinks for a long moment. She snaps her fingers. "Wait, I have an idea."

He watches her, curiosity loitering in his gaze as she marches to their walk-in closet. She bought a pair of knee-high boots a while ago when Sarah dragged her out for a shopping trip. Meredith has no idea what the hell she'll ever do with shiny, black, spike-heel boots that come up to her knees and remind her somewhat of prostitutes, but Sarah assured her the boots were an essential addition to any woman's closet, and Meredith supposes Sarah-who-should-be-a-supermodel would know what she's talking about. Meredith dumps the boots she'll never wear out of the big shoebox onto the floor of the closet. The box is huge to accommodate the tallness of the boots, and she thinks it will be big enough to fit the long knitting needles in addition to the yarn. She brings the box back to Derek.

He takes it with a nod. "Yes," he says. "Yes, this work."

He nudges the roll of wrapping paper with his hand and sends it tumbling backward. He puts the box on top of the paper, measuring the size cut he needs to make. He grabs the scissors and leans forward.

"Wait," she says. "Wait one second."

He looks up at her with a questioning gaze, eyebrows raised. She steps around him to his nightstand. She hovers there, her hand by the drawer, giving him a few seconds to identify what she's doing and to tell her no if he doesn't want her rooting around in there. His look is steady, unblinking, so she pulls open the drawer.

He keeps lots of things buried in here. The book he was reading before the accident – some medical thriller by Robin Cook – is still stacked inside at the bottom, his place midway through marked by a bookmark with a gold-colored thread tassel hanging off the end. There're also several issues of _National Geographic_ resting on top of the book. These are more recent additions to the drawer, along with some simple children's books like _Jesse Bear, What Will You Wear?_ that he's appropriated from Zola and Bailey, and a few comics borrowed from Stewart, to help him practice reading. She shovels past the magazines and books to the pile of little doodads he stores here, both new and old, in a plastic bin. Nail clippers. The bottle of lube. Pens. Unused bookmarks. A tiny book light. Miscellaneous batteries. A pocket-sized flashlight. A bottle of acetaminophen. His codeine. She finds the brown leather case she's looking for. The hinges squeak as she flips it open and smiles at what's inside.

She pulls the little case free and walks it over to him. She sits beside him on the rug. "Here," she says, proffering the case to him.

He looks at it. "Knife?" he says.

She nods. "It's your pocket scalpel. You used it to cut wrapping paper before the accident."

"Oh," he says. He pulls it loose from the case and unfolds it, careful to avoid the gleaming, bladed, sharp end.

"You want me to show you how to use it?" she says. He'll never use something like this on skin again, but she thinks wrapping paper might be a nice compromise between the past and the present. When he doesn't answer right away, though, she rushes to add, "It's okay if you don't want to. No pressure. I just thought …."

"No, I …." He swallows, and he blinks, and he shakes himself like he's been torn from a reverie. He looks at her with a warm smile. "I try. Show?"

"Okay," she says. She scoots closer. He grips the scalpel with his left hand. His non-dominant hand. His motor control with his left hand is unaffected by his TBI, though, so that's what he uses to handle sharp things and when he's trying to write. She puts her hand over his, warm skin to warm skin, and guides him to the top of the paper, beyond the edge of the shoebox. They both lean forward to reach. "This is super sharp," she says. It's meant to cut something far more resilient than wrapping paper. "You don't need to press too hard. Just put it to the paper and drag." She pulls his hand toward them, and the paper splits in two like butter. "Okay?"

He nods. "Okay."

He sets the scalpel aside and starts folding the paper around the box. Stewart must have shown him the mechanics of wrapping gifts, because Derek does a beautiful job with this part. In minutes, the skeins of yarn and the needles are hidden in a box that looks professionally wrapped. He hands her the finished box. She marks it for Carolyn with a tiny note on a free scrap of wrapping paper, and she sets the box by the wall.

He leans toward the bed and grabs the next bag. He pulls out a board game she bought for Mary, one of his littlest nieces. He picks up the scalpel again, and she watches him make the second cut by himself. The line is a bit crooked without her guiding him, but considering the hand he's working with, considering the fact that five minutes ago, he didn't know a damned thing about how to use this kind of knife …. It's perfect.

Her eyes water as she watches him, wrapping present after present with a familiar, cheerful gusto. She stacks and sorts the wrapped results when he hands them to her. It's a nice system. A bit like surgery, but … not.

 _Who is Derek Shepherd?_ she thinks as she adds a finished package to the stack by the wall. Her focus spaces, and the stack becomes a colorful, Santa kitten blur.

He still likes the whole Christmas thing.

Maybe, not as well as he used to be able to do, not on people, but he can still cut.

He's exchanged demanding for meek, chatty for quiet, arrogant for humble, gregarious for shy, restrained for gluttonous. He's lost his mean streak. He's kept his snark, though. He's kept his sense of humor. He still has his curiosity, his reverence for life, his sweetness, his love for family, and his tendency for self-flagellation. He's still a hopeless romantic with a thing for ferryboats.

He's still hers.

Who is Derek Shepherd?

She has a good summary, now, but thinks she'll spend the rest of her life answering this question. Another week, and she'll know for sure about the _Star Wars_ thing – whether he's a fan, now, or not. She's not sure what's next on the Derek discovery docket after that. She doesn't mind not knowing the next step in the journey, though. The Tilt-a-Whirl is fun as long as he's sitting in the seat beside her.

"Meredith," he says, the word soft.

She yanks her focus from the stack by the wall and looks back at him. She raises her eyebrows at him. "Yes?"

"Will you bring … more … paper?" he says.

She grins. "Sure," she says. "I'll be right back."

She rises to her feet. She bends to kiss him. And then she wanders to the hall closet where they keep the wrapping paper stash. She grabs the whole trash bag full of it, all ten rolls. There's solid red, solid green, Christmas trees, more Santa kittens, snowmen, penguins, reindeer – the collection is a Christmas menagerie.

She watches Derek cut the last strip off the first roll of Santa kitten paper as she reenters the master bedroom. She bites her lip as she watches him fold with the intentness of someone disarming a bomb. Okay, she admits to herself as a stupid, toothy smile kidnaps her bland expression. Okay, fine.

Maybe, the Christmas thing isn't **all** bad.

~ _finis~_


End file.
